


the only one in my skin

by the_ragnarok



Series: the only one in my skin [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Breathplay Mention, Crying, Cybersex, D/s, Dirty Talk, Dysphoria, Edge praise kink, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Misgendering, Nipple Play, Trans Martin Blackwood, you've got mail trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Martin's chest is both important to his sexuality and a major source of dysphoria. Currently his solution to this involves sleazy anonymous chat rooms and a lot of crying. His new online play partner may help change that.In the meanwhile, Martin's futile crush on his boss continues unabated.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Original Male Character(s)
Series: the only one in my skin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686532
Comments: 699
Kudos: 1056





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to Mx_Carter for beta and reassurance, and to exmoose for extensive handholding.
> 
> The main subject of this fic is, as the summary says, a trans male character trying to reconcile sexuality and dysphoria about the same body parts, by way of a powerful humiliation kink. This includes allowing himself to be misgendered for anonymous online sex. Names used for his body parts vary wildly, including both neutral ones as 'chest' and 'genitals', occasional use of 'cock' and frequent use of 'pussy', 'tits', etc, especially in a humiliation context. 
> 
> Tags subject to change.

Martin's first clue of how tonight is going to proceed is that as soon as he locks his flat's door, he wrestles off his shirt, followed by his binder. His second clue is the restlessness which keeps him surfing channels, eyes unseeing, mindlessly scrolling on his phone until he finally puts it down.

"This is a shitty idea," Martin says, to his past and future self, to the telly, to the empty flat.

When Martin picks up his phone again, though, his fingers find the address like an old friend. It takes a few seconds for the familiar black and red page to load.

The Cage is honestly a shitty website, and Martin has never met anyone there that he was glad to have known. But when he's like this, it's the only place to go.

Martin opens the general chat. His eyes slide over the text. Then he writes, *I've been naughty and my punishment is to show my tits to anyone who wants to see them.* Then he creates a new public room, titled *naughty sub gets humiliated*, and goes in there. 

Three or four people join in right away, familiar names that Martin has seen before. Not anyone he's keen to see again, but nobody really bad either. *show us ur tits!* one of them hoots. 

Martin swallows. He cradles his chest with one hand, using the other to keep the camera strictly aimed so as not to catch his face. The first picture comes out blurry, so he tries again and catches a good view. He sends the image.

*ooh let me cum on those creamy tits*, someone types. Another writes, *gonna put my cock between them and give you a pearl necklace*, and yet another just types out, *BOOBS*. *LOL what a slut*, someone else says. 

Martin's face grows hot as he reads the comments. *what should I do with my naughty tits?* he writes, biting his lip. He won't touch himself, not yet. 

A few more names trickle in, some unknown. The responses Martin is getting are familiar, wearingly so. *more pics. let me cum on them.* (Somebody's single minded.) *Can you suck your own nipple?*

Martin blinks at that last request. That one he hasn't got before. He doesn't recognize the username, either. *I don't know,* Martin types. *I could try?*

*Your breasts look large and soft enough,* says the person, whose handle is bene_castigat. *Try to fold them and crane your neck.*

It takes a few tries, but Martin manages. His nipple feels good in his mouth, despite the awkward stretch of his neck, a good texture to suck. He supposed that's what it's for. He snaps a picture and crops it so only his mouth and chest are visible. He posts it, and the chatroom goes wild. 

*what next?* Martin types. He scrolls through the responses. 

*show us your pussy!* No.

*put honey on them* Not the first time Martin received this prompt and also no.

*Do you have any nipple clamps or clothespins?* That one is from bene_castigat again. 

The thought makes Martin slightly dizzy. He has neither but he does have some small binder clips, which should do the job. He rummages through his bag until he finds them and fishes them out. He replies to bene_castigat's message with a *yes*. 

*Put one on one nipple, then take a picture of both,* bene_castigat writes. *I want to see a comparison.*

The clip almost slips from Martin's trembling hand, but he slips it on, hissing at the sensation, his nipple throbbing against cool metal. 

*Now pinch the other one,* says bene_castigat. *How does it feel to let a stranger see you like this? Tell you what to do?*

Martin's arousal spikes. *I feel dirty. slutty.*

*Turned on?* bene_castigat prompts.

Impossibly, Martin blushes harder as he types out, *yes.* 

*SHOW ME YOUR PUSSY SLUT* says another commenter, which breaks the mood a little. 

For once, Martin is contemplating it. Not because this rude person asked, but because maybe bene_castigat would have some ideas of what Martin should do with his genitals. 

*Do you want me to tell you what I see?* bene_castigat writes, and that shoves Martin right back into that mood. 

He types *yes, please,* with shaking fingers. 

*I see you're so desperate you'll show yourself to anyone who'll degrade you,* bene_castigat writes. Alone in his flat, Martin makes a desperate noise, throbbing in his pants. *I see someone so eager they'll whore themselves out to the entire internet. I wonder what else you'd let us do to you?*

Frantic, Martin types, *what would you like?* He slides his left hand inside his pants, gets his fingers wet and rubs his dick with their tips. 

*Cane those pretty tits. Choke you until you're clamping down on my dick like you can't stand to let it go. Stuff all your holes until you cry and make you come until you faint.*

Martin presses his fingers hard, grinds up against his hand and comes with a whimper. He takes the clip off and puts away his phone, ignoring the pinging of further chat notifications. 

He makes it to the shower before he starts crying. He keeps his eyes shut until he can get his binder on again, and sleeps in it, even though he knows it's a bad idea.

* * *

One of the nice things about working in the Institute is that people at least try to gender him correctly. Most of them forget at least half the time, even so. Martin isn't anywhere near passing: his chest is too large and even binding it just gives him an odd silhouette. He's not doing HRT and he's had no surgeries. 

In the archives in particular Tim and Sasha usually remember, and Jon has not slipped once in all the time he's known Martin, never gave a hint that he thought of Martin as anything other than a man. Probably this is one of the reasons for Martin's ill-fated crush.

Right now, all that crush is doing is making Martin want to bury himself while Jon flays him with words. 

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Jon asks, finally winding down from his tirade. 

Martin swallows back the apologies that want to come out. "I'll double check next time," he says. "I'll, I'll ask Tim or Sasha--"

"They have quite enough to do." Jon looks up over the rims of his glasses. Martin swallows. "If your need is that dire, you can come to me." His voice is like acid when he says, "I trust you won't abuse the privilege."

"I won't," Martin says, and beats a hasty retreat. 

That night, he doesn't go in the chat. He has plenty of material to feed his wank fantasies. If that makes him cry as well, alright, seems like that's the price of having orgasms these days.

* * *

He doesn't stay away for long, though. He never does. Martin's phone already knows to follow _naughty_ with both _sub_ and _tits_. Technology these days is truly amazing.

As he opens the chat room, his heart leaps when he sees the name bene_castigat in the list of occupants. 

This time, bene_castigat tells him to get on knees and elbows and let his nipples brush the ground. Martin chokes a whimper as he obeys. 

*Like an animal,* bene_castigat types. *It's good that you know your proper place. Do your tits want more?*

Biting his lip, Martin types, *yes, please.*

*Beg for it.*

Martin's hips snap forward, driving against air. *please let me. I'll be so good, anything you want.*

*Tell me how much you want it.*

*I'm so wet.* Martin briefly closes his eyes, in mortification and the brief vertigo of reconciling his body with his self. *so turned on I feel it making a mess of my pants.*

Someone else interjects, *u need a big cock,* which makes Martin giggle.

bene_castigat ignores this in favor of saying, *Sit up and hold one of your tits up by the nipple.*

Martin cries out softly as he does, tightening down on nothing. Fuck, that arsehole from the chat was right, he feels *empty*. 

He feels daring. He sends bene_castigat a private chat request. When it's marked as accepted, he lets out a breath. 

He hesitates, trying to decide how to start the conversation. _Want a picture of my cunt?_ seems a bit gauche. 

Instead, he waits as bene_castigat starts and stops typing several times, finally saying, *If we're doing this one on one, I'll need to ask about boundaries.*

Martin blinks at the screen. *if you tell me to do something I can't or don't want to, I just won't. I'm not exactly tied up.* On consideration, he adds, *as nice as that might have been.*

*Right. But I don't enjoy giving orders you won't follow, and I doubt you enjoy getting commands you can't obey. Will it help if I ask specific questions?*

*please do,* Martin types, sagging with relief.

*I called you whore before, I hope that's acceptable,* he writes. *Any humiliating terms that are off limits? Or ones you like?*

Martin hesitates. He types, *don't call me stupid,* pressing enter before he can regret it. *slut or whore are good. animal comparisons are good.*

*Excellent,* bene_castigat writes, and Martin fights a ludicrous need to blush. *Parts of your body that you want me to stay away from or pay attention to?*

Oh, God, just the question makes Martin's nipples stand out. It's been so long since anyone else has touched them, and the absence is like a physical presence. *I like focus on my chest,* Martin writes. *tummy, genitals, and arse, too. thighs are good for slapping.*

That gets bene_castigat typing and deleting again. Martin frowns at the screen. He doesn't think he said anything too bad. Finally, bene_castigat writes, "What are your pronouns?"

Martin stares at the screen. That's a question nobody's ever asked him before. He's listed on the site as a woman because it has exactly two options and putting himself down as a man, however affirming, tends to leave people disappointed when they see his pictures. It sucks when people look at him naked and think he’s a woman, but at least he's getting off. 

bene_castigat adds, *I hope I haven't caused offense. I try not to assume these things.*

Fuck. He can't just let the guy think he'd done something wrong. So Martin writes, *he/him/his*, and waits for the man to block him.

Instead of blocking, bene_castigat writes, *I see. That explains some things.*

Curious, Martin can't help but ask, *like what?*

*I'm not usually drawn to female subs, but you are exceptionally appealing. If you're a man, that makes much more sense given my usual type. Are there specific words I should use for your body parts, or not use?*

Martin just stops himself from asking what type that is. Instead he writes, *whatever's good, I'm not fussed.*

It takes bene_castigat a few moments to answer him, during which Martin grows anxious. *Why don't you start by slapping your chest, then,* he finally replies. *Get it good and red, then send me a picture.*

Martin squirms. *you can call them my tits, you know.*

*Fine. Put one hand under your tit to brace it, then hit it with the other hand.*

Martin does that. The first hit makes him startle, even though it shouldn't be surprising to hit himself. This guy is good at telling him what to do, the amount of detail helping Martin feel like his hands belong to someone else. He marks up easily: after four or five hits, the side of his chest he's been hitting looks notably red. He snaps a picture and uploads it.

*Good,* says bene_castigat. Martin shivers and squeezes his legs together. *Are you enjoying this? Tell me.*

The throbbing between Martin's legs is turning into a steady ache. *I like it. I like being told what to do. I like,* he hesitates, but types, *being told I'm good.*

*Do you want to be told you're a good boy?*

Oh shit. A choked whimper escapes Martin's mouth, his hole clenching on nothing. He'd never been called that. Good girl, on occasion, good pet once or twice. But oh God, he wants this. *please. yes. please.*

*Good boy. Keep telling me what you like,* bene_castigat writes, and Martin shoves his hand inside his pants, unable to wait any longer. *What are you doing now?*

*touching myself,* Martin admits, thumb-typing awkwardly with only his left hand. *my clit.* He really hopes bene_castigat doesn't mind. 

If what he writes next is any indication, though, it doesn't seem like he does: *Did I get you so hot that you couldn't keep from touching yourself?*

*yes. yes. it's so good.* A mad whim strikes Martin, and he types, *can I please cum?*

*I don't know, can you?*

Martin rolls his eyes and groans, hips snapping forward to rub his cock against his hand. *I'm sorry, may I?*

*Yes, you may.* That's all it takes for Martin to come, whining as he does, his nipples tight in the cold air of the room. *tell me when you’re done.*

*done,* Martin types after a few seconds to catch his breath.

*That was quick,* bene_castigat writes. 

Martin cringes. He gets off on humiliation, but once he's come it's, well, humiliating. He's not sure he wants to see what bene_castigat has to say about that.

All bene_castigat says next, though, is, *How are you doing?*

Martin blinks stupidly at the screen. *I've just cum. I'm fine.* It's becoming more of a lie by the minute, though. The sight of his tits on the chat window makes him gag a little. Martin doesn't mind tits at large, it's just his own that are disgusting. 

*No dysphoria? No need for aftercare?*

Martin flinches. *that's no concern of yours.*

It takes him a little while to respond. *I don't wish to intrude, but I have a strong preference to know my partners are well before I leave them. I have no desire to inflict lasting damage.* He pauses, then adds, *Excluding things agreed to in advance, such as scarring.*

Scarring isn't Martin's thing, but the way bene_castigat writes outside of a scene is kind of cute. *supposing I had dysphoria,* he writes, *what exactly can you do about it?*

*What do you usually do?*

Martin's mouth twists. *sleep in my binder, and I don't need you telling me off for that.*

*I'm not going to. But I have an idea, if you want to try,* he writes.

After a brief hesitation, Martin says, *alright.* There's a definite chance this might make everything worse, but he's too curious to turn it down. 

*Try to imagine you’re putting your chest away,* bene_castigat writes. *It's done its job, and now that you don't need it you can forget about it. Put on a shirt and under that there's only your body. Which is male, because you are a male and it belongs to you.*

To Martin's surprise, while this doesn't make his disgust with himself go away exactly, the feeling does lose its edge as he pulls on a t-shirt. He can breathe a little easier. *yeah that helped. thx.* 

*Get yourself something to drink,* bene_castigat writes. Martin wants to point out that they're not scening anymore and he doesn't get to tell Martin what to do, except by the time he's had that thought he's already halfway to the tap. When he's back, he sees bene_castigat has written, *What are your usual aftercare needs?*

Martin must still be loopy from the scene, because he types, *dunno. never got any.*

It takes bene_castigat several long minutes to respond with, *You should probably have something small to eat. A biscuit, a piece of fruit, some chocolate. Are you prone to sub drop?*

Bitterly, Martin considers that if they've gotten this far, he may as well continue spilling his guts. *I usually feel shitty but it's anyone's guess whether that's sub drop or dysphoria or both.*

*Alright,* bene_castigat writes. *Please send me a message tomorrow to say how you're doing? It'll ease my mind.* He adds a Discord handle. 

*sure,* Martin types, more bewildered than anything. He has absolutely no plans to message this guy. However, as he gets in bed, it occurs to him that if he has this guy's handle, he can actually initiate chat with him another time. 

Given how hard he'd made Martin come tonight, that's definitely something he'd be interested in revisiting. Maybe he'll send that message after all.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Martin wakes up groggy and with a vague headache. His ribs don't hurt and he can breathe deeply, though, so that's an improvement on previous occasions. 

He dashes out a message while waiting for the train: *this is NaughtySub. I'm doing okay.*

The reply comes quicker than he would have expected. *Good. Thank you for letting me know.*

Martin hesitates. In his residual tiredness it's easy to make impulsive decisions, so he writes, *can I message you again if I'm feeling naughty?*

*Not right now. I'm at work.* Before Martin can flinch at the rebuke, though, bene_castigat adds, *I'll be home in ten hours or so. I'll be happy to talk then.*

Martin gives a low whistle. *that's a pretty long work day.*

*Yes, well, I have rather a lot of work to do. Which I should be doing instead of chatting. Message me later.*

Martin blinks at his phone, trying to decide how to take this. bene_castigat sounds abrupt, like he's eager to get rid of him; but then there's that last bit, more like an order than a request. It can't be an aside tacked on for politeness' sake, as there's absolutely nothing polite about that message. Martin tries and fails to make it all fit together. 

His train arrives, then, and he clears the whole subject out of his mind.

* * *

That night, Martin spends an inordinately long time washing dishes and sneaking surreptitious glances at the clock. When the time comes, though, he stares at his screen and bites his lip, torn between desire and terror. 

Today's been a good day. The positives of getting off had outweighed the negatives, and even Jon seemed to be in a better mood, hardly snapping at Martin at all and absently thanking him when Martin had brought him tea. There's no guarantee, though, that trying to do the same thing tonight won't leave him barely functional tomorrow.

He stares at his discord screen. At ten past, however, the decision is taken out of his hands by bene_castigat messaging, *Are you around?*

That's a simple enough question. *yes.*

*Still interested?*

As though magically summoned, his libido leaps. Martin swallows. If earlier just getting a shower and going to sleep had been in the cards, now it is decidedly not. *yeah.*

*Excellent. What are you wearing?*

Martin glances down at himself. *just pants.* They're not going to win any prizes for sexiness but they don't have holes. That's got to count for something.

*Take them off and sit with your legs spread,* bene_castigat writes, *so everyone can see your slutty little hole. Tell me when you're done.* Martin bites off a needy whimper, obeys and reports back. *Good. How does that feel?*

*exposed,* Martin writes. *you don't want to know the noise I just made.*

After a few false starts, bene_castigat writes, *I do, actually. If you ever felt like recording yourself I'd be happy to hear.*

Martin curses. His legs clench in a futile attempt to give his cock some friction. God, he wants that, wants the knowledge that someone is listening to him make a wreck of himself.

There are some issues with this suggestion, though. *I hate my voice.* As he presses enter, he already regrets putting it like that, so baldly. He could have just said no. He can imagine the myriad ways bene_castigat can twist that statement, make him justify himself until he gives in if only so he doesn't have to argue anymore.

*Of course,* bene_castigat writes. *We'll say no more of it, then.*

For a moment, Martin stares dumbly at the screen. Then he writes, *I could gag myself, though. so you just hear the noises I make and I don't have to talk.* He looks at the screen, heart hammering. He can't believe he just sent that message.

This time, the reply comes immediately: *Do that.*

Heart hammering in his chest, Martin goes to rifle through his drawers. He comes out triumphant with a scarf and a bulky pair of socks. He puts the latter in his mouth, ties the former to secure it in place, turns on the audio and types, *done.*

*Good boy.*

If Martin had thought he'd be prepared to be called that now, he would've been wrong. It feels like goosebumps, like a wave of _yes_ coursing through his body. He types *thank you* with shaking fingers.

bene_castigat doesn't acknowledge this. Instead he writes, *There are so many things I want to do to you, I hardly know where to start. Do you have any toys?*

Martin has one cheap bullet vibrator and one smallish dildo. He says so. 

*And where do you like to use the dildo? Front or back hole?*

Martin blushes. *front.* He likes the idea of getting his arse fucked, but he always loses patience with himself for the actual act. It just takes all this thought and organization, and his front hole's right there, helpfully supplying its own wet.

As if he can read Martin's mind, bene_castigat writes, *Are you wet already?* and, once Martin confirms this, *Put a finger inside your slick little hole.*

*just one?* Martin laboriously types with his left hand as the right one makes its way down his pants. 

*Greedy boy,* bene_castigat writes. *You can have more later. First I want to hear you.*

Well, that one's no difficulty. Martin hums a bit as he breaches himself.

*I want you to fuck yourself on your hand,* bene_castigat writes. *Do you need the other one for balance?* At Martin's negative, he writes, *Pinch your nipple with the other one.*

That gets Martin making noise, sure enough. He's slick and loose to a degree that one finger barely makes an impression, and the degradation of knowing that makes him slicker yet. 

*Can't type now, can you?* bene_castigat writes. *No hands. Just as well. The only thing I want to hear from you is begging.* Martin whimpers. *Oh, I heard that. Nice. So that's all it takes, some stranger giving you orders and you're ready to wet your pants?*

Martin's face heats up. The nipple he's got between his fingers sparks pleasure and pain in equal measures. 

*I want you whining like a dog,* bene_castigat writes, and the sound Martin makes in response is certainly along that line. *Squealing like a pig. I think you should get on all fours and stick out your arse so everyone can get a good look.*

Martin whimpers and does that. 

*Lean forward. I'd step on your face and pin it to the ground, but I don't want to get my shoes dirty.* After a pause, bene_castigat adds, *I might consider it if you'd lick them clean afterwards. If you beg for the privilege nicely.*

Oh fuck. Martin awkwardly maneuvers until he can type with his clean hand, *please. please let me. please use me.*

*Maybe,* bene_castigat writes. *I want to see you come first, you filthy beast. Watch your tits shake while you're twitching to be touched.*

Martin can't think, can only make lost little sounds as he touches himself, rubbing his cock fast and rough. He gasps as he comes, breath coming in stuttery little "ah--ah--ah--"s. 

*Did you come?* The words are stark on the screen of Martin's phone. 

Martin gives himself a moment to catch his breath before typing, *yes.*

*Good boy.*

It's not fair. The moan those two words rip out of him feels like the least dignified thing he's ever done, which is saying something. 

*You like that, don't you. Think you could go again if I call you that, tell you what a good slutty boy you are, with your sloppy wet hole?*

Martin makes a keening noise, but types, *oh god it's too much but please don't stop.*

*I promised you more fingers, didn't I? Think three would stretch you enough, or do you need four?*

Martin usually jerks off with two at most. Face burning, he types, *3, pls.*

*Of course. Can't have you growing loose too soon. I bet you like to be fisted, you'd beg for someone's entire hand, but right now all you have are your own fingers. Poor boy.*

Martin's eyes roll back in his head. He's stretched enough around his fingers to feel a subtle burn, as wet as he is. He makes short, sharp, pleading sounds. 

*I wonder,* bene_castigat writes. *Would you come again if I told you to? Or would you just keep humping your own fingers, begging for release?*

The question is answered as Martin, shoving his fingers deep inside, comes a second time. He squeezes around them, crying out as he rubs the heel of his hand against his sore cock. 

*That sounded like another orgasm. Am I correct?*

*yse,* Martin types, and hastily corrects the typo. *I need to stop for real now. my legs have turned to jelly.*

*Have they, now?* 

*yeah.* While Martin has no idea what bene_castigat looks like, he finds himself imagining him with a pleased little smile, which makes Martin squirm in an entirely different way. 

Although - huh. bene_castigat spoke of not making assumptions. Perhaps Martin shouldn't do that, either. He writes, *hey, a little awkward to ask now, but what are your pronouns?*

bene_castigat replies promptly: *He/him/his.*

Martin lets himself sag a little into the sofa. *okay so I had it right. awesome.* He takes a breath. *anyway wow, you're really good at this.*

*You think so?* Again Martin can imagine a pleased little smile. *Thank you. I do what I can.*

A thought niggles at Martin. *did you get off at some point? because if so, your typing skills are way better than mine.*

This time, it takes bene_castigat some time to answer. *If I don't orgasm during our sessions, would that be an issue?*

Martin tilts his head and gives this some serious thought. *I mean, I'm enjoying this a lot, and I want you to enjoy it as well. you don't have to come for my sake.*

*I do enjoy it. Thank you for your concern.* bene_castigat follows that up with, *I'm afraid I just came across as sarcastic, but my thanks were genuine.*

Glee bubbles up inside of Martin. Recklessly, he writes, *does that mean you'll want to do this again?*

*Definitely, if you're amenable.* There is a short pause, then he writes, *How are you feeling?*

Martin takes stock of himself. Mostly he's still grinning over the idea that he's somehow snagged a guy who is good at domming, into him, and not a complete dick. *pretty good. you?*

*I'm fine. No dysphoria?*

Christ, he had to ask. But even as Martin checks, he's feeling pretty good with himself. He'll want to cover up before that changes, though, which reminds him: *I'm okay, but do you mind doing the thing again where I put away my chest?*

*Of course we can,* bene_castigat writes, and a few minutes later Martin has his shirt on and his breathing has evened out. He lets bene_castigat boss him around some more, into getting food and water and into bed. 

Once there, Martin bites his lip and types, *you don't have to be so careful with me.*

*I'm not taking any particular care. I'm showing you the barest respect I'd have for any person who submitted to me.*

Martin flinches, and then feels silly. What's he got to flinch from? *I appreciate it anyway.*

*Your appreciation is noted. Was the scene to your liking? Is there anything you'd want to do differently in the future?*

Chewing his lip, Martin thinks. The scene was undeniably hot. It's a little odd to have so little attention paid to his chest in a session, but he feels better now than he's felt after getting off in ages. *it was great. I loved it.*

*Excellent,* bene_castigat writes. *You'll be going to sleep now?*

Martin bids him good night and turns off the light, feeling optimistic. Maybe he's found a way to just... get off and feel okay about it. Maybe he's finally sorted his shit out.

* * *

But of course it can't be that simple. 

Over the next five days bene_castigat scenes with him three more times. Each time Martin comes hard enough that he's grateful for the gag he wears, if only to spare his neighbors. 

*Tell me what you want,* bene_castigat writes to him on the sixth day. *What makes your wet little hole clench just to imagine.*

In a thoughtless moment, Martin writes, *punish my tits.* As he presses enter, though, he hunches his shoulders, berating himself. If he wants this, why is he afraid? If it scares him, why does he want it?

It takes bene_castigat almost a minute to reply, *You don't get to choose, slut. Spread your legs and fuck your hole.*

In the aftermath, once Martin has got his customary water and snack, bene_castigat asks, *What you asked for today, with your chest. Was it something you wanted?*

Humiliation burns in Martin’s belly. It's not nearly as much fun when he's no longer turned on. *I asked for it, didn't I?*

The three little dots on the screen show up and disappear a few times before bene_castigat writes, *I don't want to be an accessory to self harm.*

Martin recoils. *it's not that!* 

*Are you certain? You had a fairly adverse reaction when we last did that.*

*that's my problem, not yours.* Martin's jaw tightens. 

After another moment, bene_castigat writes, *You get to decide your own risk profile, but I get to decide mine. If I'm participating, I need to know how likely it is that what we're doing will hurt you.*

*what if it's worth it?* Martin writes, in a burst of emotion. *what if I hate my body most days anyway, and I may as well feel good about it for a few rotten minutes? what the hell do you know about dysphoria anyway?*

*More than I'd like,* bene_castigat writes. Martin is still blinking at the screen when he adds, *I don't mean to imply that I know your needs better than you do. I'll ask again, plainly: is this something you do because you want it? Is it worth the risk to you?*

Martin's eyes prickle as he writes, *yes.*

*Alright. Would it be acceptable to you to discuss this further, and see if I can make adjustments so you'll have the parts you enjoy without ones that make you miserable?*

*they're the same parts,* Martin types, and wipes his face.

*Maybe so. In that case, we can try to think of aftercare to help with lingering effects. But would you mind trying?*

*I suppose not,* Martin types.

As he settles into bed, he cries a little. It's not fair that he just found this person, this relationship that makes him feel so good, and already he's going to lose it by being too big of a bother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- use of gag  
> \- fisting mention  
> \- discussion of dysphoria-causing kink as potential self-harm


	3. Chapter 3

Things seem a bit better the next day. His body's thrumming pleasantly, and he tells himself that if bene_castigat loses interest, Martin's already had three more good sessions than he otherwise would. 

At work, Jon's good mood persists, enough that Martin feels brave enough to ask his advice about more research venues for the statement he'd been following up. Even so, Martin steels himself to be yelled at.

Instead, Jon adjusts his reading glasses, _hm_ s over Martin's tentative ideas, nixes two of them but allows the others as acceptable and offers another idea of his own. For a moment, he talks to Martin without condescension or anger; a bit brusque, the same way he might be with Sasha or Tim. Like he expects Martin to keep up.

Martin goes back to his desk shaking ever so slightly. He'd almost have preferred shouting; that, he would know how to process.

* * *

It leaves him in a state. By the time the usual hour rolls by, Martin is shifting uncomfortably with arousal, both Pavlovian reaction and the residual, bordering-on-panic excitement of having a nearly cordial interaction with Jon. 

bene_castigat picks up on that three sentences in. *My, aren't you eager today.*

Martin flushes and squirms. *got worked up. sorry?*

*Why would you apologize?* Before Martin can respond, bene_castigat writes, *Does that mean you'd rather defer the discussion of playing with your chest, or do that now and wait?*

Martin bites his lip as suspicion dawns. *are you enjoying making me choose?*

*Maybe a little bit.* The only notion Martin has of bene_castigat's smile is his own imagination, but Martin likes what said imagination had come up with. *Well?*

With a deep breath, Martin considers. He's so turned on he's desperate with it, but a part of him enjoys the tease, being made to wait. And he does want his tits to feature. *lets talk about it.*

*Alright.* There's a short pause, and then bene_castigat writes, *Do you have some idea of what might make you feel better or worse?*

About to write a denial, Martin freezes. 

A moment later, bene_castigat prompts, *Do you?*

Martin swallows. *um. I do but I feel weird about saying it.*

*Do you want me to make you?*

Choking down a noise, Martin writes, *please.*

*Get your gag first, I want to hear you.* Martin does so, more quickly than before since he has all the necessary parts close to hand. If they keep doing this maybe he'll invest in a real ball gag. *Now. You had something to tell me?*

*it's,* Martin deliberates, and ends up writing all the adjectives he can think of: *gross. stupid. not as interesting as I'm making it sound.*

*I'll be the judge of that,* bene_castigat writes. *Whatever it is, I want to hear it. Are you going to hide it from me?*

Martin whimpers and shifts in his seat. His pants are going to be soaked through soon. *but are you sure you want to know?*

*I'm certain. Tell me. Now.*

With a tiny, choked sound, Martin writes, *it helps when I think about my tits as not human. like cow's teats, or maybe something laid eggs in my chest.* He cringes a little. *told you it was gross.*

*And I told you I'll make that decision, and I say it's not gross.*

Martin blinks. *its not?*

*I think you'd make quite a good little cow.* Martin can't help a thin, high sound. *Oh, like that, do you? What's better, being a good boy or a good cow?*

*what's up with giving me impossible choices today,* Martin types weakly.

*I suppose you can be spared that one. Say, do you have some thick rubber bands, or hair bands? Something elastic, not too narrow.*

*I might.* Martin rummages through his bag until he finds a stray couple of rubber bands. He thinks he'd used them to keep his lunch box shut. *found some. what now?*

*Is your shirt off?* At Martin's affirmative, bene_castigat writes, *Put one around your breast. Tight enough that it digs into the flesh, not so tight it'll stop the blood flow, if you can. Then take a picture.*

Two turns of the band get it around his tit snugly enough. Martin swallows, takes a picture and sends.

*Nice,* bene_castigat writes. Martin's hips squeeze together. *What's this you have now? Doesn't even look like a human chest, does it?*

The burn of humiliation hits Martin between the legs and he moans. *what should I do to it?*

*Snap the band a couple of times. See if you can raise some welts.*

Martin yelps as he does. He doesn't love pain for its own sake, but he's pretty sure bene_castigat does, and knowing he's doing as he's told makes it worthwhile. He takes a picture when it's done.

*Look at your nipples, standing up like that, practically begging. Pinch them. Hard.*

As he obeys, Martin's yelp transforms into a groan. Fuck, it hurts _nice_. 

*Hook your fingers up under the bands and let your teats hang from them.* It's a pretty uncomfortable position, which Martin guesses is the idea. *Look at them dangling. Tell me how that makes you feel.*

*like theyre yours,* Martin writes. *like you decide everything about them, including whether they count as breasts at all.*

*I think they do not.* At the words, Martin shivers and lets out a little cry. *They're your teats, like the cow you are. You can't even talk, can you? Let me hear you. Pull on your teats. Milk yourself. You can't help but want to do what you're told.*

*I can't. I really cant.* Martin's nipples are hard between his fingers. *please let me touch myself.*

*Oh? I thought I specifically instructed you to touch yourself. Or did you mean touch yourself elsewhere?*

bene_castigat, Martin reflects, is kind of a bastard. Good thing he's into that. *please let me touch my clit*

*Can you get your feet on your seat and spread your legs so both your greedy little holes are on display?*

The sofa is broad enough to allow this. It's not a position Martin can maintain for very long, but he doesn't think he'll need to. *done.*

*Good. Feels empty, doesn't it? Don't you want to be filled?*

*yes. fuck. yes.*

*Well, right now you're not getting that. Fingers on clit and nothing more. Good luck.*

Fuck bene_castigat, because until now it hasn't occurred to Martin how empty he feels. He makes overwhelmed little sounds that grow louder and louder as he touches himself, culminating in a muffled attempt to plead through the gag as he comes clenching around nothing.

*Came, did you? Ready for another go?*

*fuck you. yes,* Martin writes, before it occurs to him to worry that bene_castigat might not like the attitude.

If he minds, he shows no sign of it. Instead he writes, *Can you get a good picture of your holes to send me? I want to see how wet and open you are.*

Martin tries, but because of the angle and his belly he can't really see the screen enough to position the phone well. His best attempt just shows thighs and tummy. *didnt work, sorry.*

*Not a problem. Finger yourself and take a picture of your hand.* 

That, Martin can and does do. His fingers are a bit close to the camera and out of focus, though. *can you see anything in here?*

*I can see well enough. Good boy. Get your dildo and make yourself come again.*

Martin pauses. *can I take off the rubber bands first?*

*Yes. Do that, then bring the toy. Take a picture of the marks the bands left on your teats.*

Coming for the second time takes a bit longer, but it goes smoothly with bene_castigat talking him through it, telling him how easy he is, to come like that from being told what a slut he is, what an animal. He's not mean about it, though, almost friendly. 

In the aftermath, Martin flops down on the sofa. He turns off the audio and takes off the gag so he can catch his breath more easily. 

*How are you doing?*

*rly fucking good,* Martin writes. *that was  
wow  
thank you*

*I'm glad to hear that,* bene_castigat writes, and there Martin goes, imagining that pleased little smile again. *Shall we put your chest away now?*

Gratitude curls up in Martin's stomach. *yes, pls.*

* * *

The next week is pretty unexceptionable, except for how it includes the best sex of Martin's life, in cyberspace or in real life. bene_castigat is a fucking _demon_ , clever and creative and somehow making Martin feel like he himself is hot stuff in the process. 

When bene_castigat writes, once they've finished aftercare for a scene, *I won't be available for the next few days,* it feels like a kick to the chest.

*what? why?* Martin writes before he can remind himself not to be needy. Not outside of a scene, anyway. 

*Work,* bene_castigat writes succinctly. *Trust me, I would much prefer to be able to keep up our current schedule.*

That... warms Martin considerably. *oh. good luck with work, I suppose.* He takes a deep breath before pressing enter. These are going to be a long few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- consensual dehumanization  
> \- tiny bit of hucow kink  
> \- rubber bands on tits for both reshaping and sadism  
> \- mention of laying eggs in people


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Code16, for doing empirical research and giving me thoughts on consent, and to Exmoose for giving good suggestions. This chapter is unbeta'd because I am an impatient beast, any mistakes are not my trusty beta's fault. See end notes for content notes as usual.

The following week is, in a word, shitty.

It's two in the morning. Martin's eyes are shutting as he mindlessly scrolls through his feed. He needs to be at the office bright and early, but he can't make himself go to sleep.

 _Go. It's not like if you wait for long enough he'll show up,_ Martin thinks, irritable. And yet, it's another hour before he peels himself from the sofa.

* * *

Moods in the office are tense. Apparently there's some kind of grant application that was due last month, and they missed it due to some scheduling shenanigans, so now everyone has to run around like mice on uppers. Sasha and Tim are curt with him when he tries to talk with them.

The one time Martin tries to offer Jon tea, he _snarls_.

Maybe the worst part is that Martin's workload is actually less heavy than usual. Nobody has time to tell him what to do, and he can't figure out how to help without any input from other people. He stays late in the office anyway, unwilling to be the only one clocking out at a reasonable hour. Faffing around the archives with nothing in particular to do is its own kind of torture. 

At home, Martin keeps signing in and out of chat rooms on "The Cage", never writing anything. He won't; it's not worth it, not now that he has an alternative.

Unless bene_castigat's request was a polite fiction, a prelude to blocking Martin or ghosting him. But he tries not to think about that.

* * *

The funding crisis is resolved by Friday noon. Tim and Sasha take off early. Jon, of course, is still in his office when Martin clocks out at five.

Martin heats up a frozen meal for dinner and stares at the microwave clock. Tonight, he resolves, if bene_castigat doesn't show up by ten, he'll post on the chat room. It's shit, but it's better than nothing. Maybe Martin can try telling himself to put his chest away. That might work.

For a moment, he imagines asking some stranger from the chat to call him a good boy. He imagines their reaction, and flinches. Yeah, that's not happening. For added fun, he considers that the best thing he can think of doing on a Friday night is chatting to an internet stranger who'll tell him to hurt himself.

The microwave beeps, rescuing him from self-pity. For the next fifteen minutes, he concentrates on the mediocre food only.

Before he's done eating, his phone chimes - a Discord notification. Martin sits ramrod straight in his chair. He finishes the last few bites so fast it's a miracle he doesn't choke, and sits down on the couch carefully - he'd broken one of the ancient chairs that came with the flat already, he doesn't need any additional wrath from his landlord.

He unlocks his phone with slightly shaking hands, telling himself not to be disappointed if it's some app update notification or something similarly naff. His heart skips a beat when he sees bene_castigat's user icon, red writing on pale flesh, too small for Martin to make out.

*Are you up for scening tonight?*

*god yeah,* Martin types before he thinks to worry about seeming too eager. Of course, he did finish his dinner and left bene_castigat waiting for several minutes. Maybe in the meantime he'd gotten bored and left.

Almost as soon as Martin replies, though, those blessed three dots show up. Martin lets out a relieved breath.

*Anything in particular you'd like tonight?*

*anything,* Martin writes with a burst of honesty. *whatever you like, I just want to feel like I'm being useful for once.*

The three dots appear and disappear. Martin frowns. Did he say something wrong?

*You sound like you're not in a good place,* bene_castigat writes. Martin's anxiety spikes. Goddamn it, now bene_castigat will tell him he doesn't want to play after all. Except what he actually writes is, *Can you think of any form of play that might make you feel better?*

It makes Martin's heart swell. *your really considerate.*

*You mean "you're". And I am not, I am showing basic human decency. Do you have an answer for me?*

Martin hunches. *i dont know. something youll be really satisfied with.*

After a short pause, bene_castigat writes, *You want praise, but you want to earn it. You want it to be genuine.*

*yes.* Martin briefly closes his eyes, overwhelmed with how right that is.

*First of all, I want you to know that I never give praise I don't fully endorse. Every time I called you a good boy, I meant it. I will call you that right now, if you ask, and stand behind that.*

He adds, *But I don't think that's what you want, at this moment. I think you want to be pushed to your limit. To really feel like you worked hard for that praise, that you deserve it. And you do, even if you do nothing at all but ask. But if you want me to make you feel that way, I'll be happy to.*

*thank you.* Fuck, they better get to scening before Martin hyperventilates. *what do you want me to do, then?*

*How do you feel about pain? Honesty, please.*

*not too into it, but happy to do it if you are,* Martin writes. *what did you have in mind?*

*Some light impact. If you'd prefer, however, I can come up with something else.*

Something blooms in Martin's chest that he doesn't want to define. *no that works.*

After another moment, bene_castigat writes, *Do you have a ruler? Wooden or plastic, not metal.*

Martin searches; if he does, he can't find it, and he says so.

*Alright. Spatula or serving spoon, maybe?*

Martin also doesn't have one of those. He doesn't cook much. Meaning, at all. He seems to catch what bene_castigat is aiming for, though. *I have chopsticks if those might work? the disposable kind tho, not fancy. or I have a hairbrush.*

*Good ideas.* He takes a little time to add, *Put both next to you. Get undressed, I want your thighs and chest exposed.*

Taking off his clothes leaves Martin shivering, from the cold and exposure. He eyes the socks and scarf he has ready to hand. *gag too?*

*Yes. Excellent thinking.*

The words give Martin goosebumps; annoyingly, they also make his eyes burn. *dont be nice to me yet. i can't.*

bene_castigat starts typing, stops, then writes, *Alright. Let's start. Is hitting your hand okay as well?* On Martin's positive answer, he says, *I want you to take the chopstick in your dominant hand, and hit the other one with it. Do it ten times, then tell me how you feel.*

Martin's got an okay pain threshold, he thinks, but he's not really used to being hurt when he's not turned on. It's weird that he's not, given his usual reaction to just seeing bene_castigat's username, but he wants to do this as much as he's ever wanted to come. He bites his lip as he silently counts out hits. *done,* he types. *my hand is sore. hot.* He hurries to add, *I can take more tho.*

bene_castigat takes his time replying.*My goal tonight,* he finally writes *is to hurt you and push you, but not too far. I like hearing you and thinking of you taking pain for me. But I don't want to hurt you too bad, or to take you to an emotional place you don't want to be. I'll need your help to achieve that. How does being hit make you feel, emotionally?*

Fuck. *I wasn't expecting a quiz,* Martin writes, then bites the inside of his cheek, angry with himself. Who's gonna want him with this kind of attitude?

*I know it's a difficult question,* bene_castigat writes, with no acknowledgement of Martin's rudeness. *But I need your answer. Can you give it to me?*

Argh. How is he supposed to say no to that? He closes his eyes and tries to think. He feels, he feels... sore, yes, like he'd said. Also he's on the verge of crying, and he's not sure why. He says so.

*If you cried, would that feel cathartic? Arousing? Would it make you angry? Would it make you have negative feelings about yourself?*

*I don't know. how should I know that?* Martin types, vision blurring. Fuck. *I don't want you to think Im weak.*

*I don't think that at all. Whether or not you cry won't change that.*

A tear slips down Martin's nose. *good, because I'm crying now.*

*You're not doing anything wrong. How does crying feel?*

*good,* Martin finally admits. *like relief.*

*Excellent. I like to think of you crying for me, crying because I hurt you until you had no choice but to let yourself feel.* Martin sobs at the words. *I can hear you, and I like what I hear. Will praising you now still be bad?*

*I haven't done anything yet,* Martin says, feeling foolish. *and I'll probably cry worse.*

*If crying feels good, then that's a good thing, isn't it?*

Another sob makes its way out. *yes.*

*Okay. I still want to listen to you hurt yourself. Tell me where you're sitting.* At bene_castigat's prompting, Martin arranges himself on hands and knees on the sofa, with his blanket wadded up beneath him as support and the phone leaning on the armrest before him. *Now I want you to imagine you're in my lap. How does that feel?*

Tears flow unimpeded down Martin's face. *I want that.*

*You know what my user name means?* At Martin's "No," bene_castigat writes, "It's from Latin. _Qui bene amat, bene castigat._ He who loves well, punishes well. I want to punish you now, not because you're bad, but because you're good and I like to see you hurting for me. Would you like that?*

Martin whimpers. *I want to be good.*

*I know. You are. You'll be good regardless of whether you let me hurt you. Is there something else you'd prefer I do?*

*I want to make you happy. hurt me. please. it like how it feels when its for you.*

bene_castigat starts typing, stops, then writes, *Take the hairbrush and hit your thigh, if you can reach it.* Martin can, but it's awkward. He says so. *Alright, change positions: lie on your back and pull your knees toward your chest, so your inner thighs are exposed. Now hit yourself, five times on each thigh.*

Martin has to put the phone down to do it. When he picks it up, he sees bene_castigat wrote, *I love the sound the brush makes hitting your skin. Do you want to take a picture to show me?*

It takes a bit of squirming, but Martin manages. He sends, and bene_castigat writes, *Beautiful. Oh, I hear you're crying. That's lovely. Keep doing that,* which makes Martin cry harder still.

Next he has Martin hit his chest, first with the chopstick and then with the hairbrush, and ask for a comparison. *the brush felt interesting,* Martin writes. *sort of burning. the chopstick hurt more.*

*I want you back on hands and knees now,* bene_castigat says. Once Martin has positioned himself and reported back, he writes, *Now imagine my hands on your back, rubbing. Imagine me touching all the places you've hurt yourself for me. Yes, keep crying. You've done a fantastic job.* Martin starts to type out a response when bene_castigat writes, *Don't contradict me.*

*I wasn't going to,* Martin lies.

*Good. You were fantastic, hurting and crying so nicely for me. You made me feel powerful. Thank you for giving me that.*

At that, Martin has to drop his face to his hands and his whole body convulses with his crying. It feels like it's dragged out from the center of his chest. When he can, he raises his head and shakily types, *thnk you.*

*Thank _you_ ,* bene_castigat writes. *Are you comfortable where you are?*

*cold.*

*Oh, of course. Can you get another blanket to throw on top of yourself?* Martin does that. *Alright. Anything else?* Martin replies in the negative. *I want you to stay like this for a bit. Imagine my hands on your back, running through your hair, grabbing the back of your neck. How does that feel?*

*its good. real good. thank you.*

*You're beautiful.*

Martin flinches. *You don't even know what I look like.*

*I don't need to. That's not relevant. You're beautiful regardless of that.*

That has Martin shaking into another round of full-body sobs. When he looks at his phone again, bene_castigat has written, *I will stop praising you now, not because you don't deserve all you've had and more, but because I see this is hard on you and it seems like you've had a rough time.*

Before he can think better, Martin types, *hah, tell my boss that. he'd die laughing if he knew how to laugh.*

*Sounds like an absolute curmudgeon.*

Martin closes his eyes briefly. *he isnt really. I'm just bad at everything. which he likes to rub my nose in.*

After several false starts, bene_castigat writes, *I don't know anything about your job performance, but it doesn't sound like you don't care. Your boss could at least try to help you do better, rather than berate you when you don't perform up to his standards.*

Martin hunches. *I shouldn't have this job. I'm not actually qualified for it.* It's an odd relief, to tell that to some stranger on the internet. *hes right to call me an idiot.*

*Calling your employee an idiot is absolutely unprofessional, regardless of their conduct.*

*okay, he didnt literally call me that. but I can see him think it when he looks at me.*

*Either way, if you were given this job, it's up to him to be decent to you and give you the help you need to perform. If you're not a good fit for it, then you're not, but that's no reason to be uncivil.*

*hes civil,* Martin types unhappily. *I just wish I could do better.*

*I'd tell you to ask for his help, but he doesn't sound very approachable,* bene_castigat writes. *I'm sorry I don't have better advice.*

*no don't! I'm sorry I made you listen to me complain.*

*You did not make me do anything. In fact, I'm glad you told me what you did. It's given me an opportunity to reflect on my own conduct, and improve it.* A short pause, and then, *Do you want me to talk you through putting your chest away?*

*dont think I need to,* Martin says with some surprise. *but, um.* He blushes, unable to type what he wants to ask for.

*Tell me.*

As if permission is all he'd been waiting for, Martin writes, *can i have a hug pls?*

bene_castigat's reply is immediate. *Of course.* He adds, *I will be happy to do that in the future as well. Just ask.*

Martin finds himself hugging the wadded blanket, shedding a few more helpless tears.

*I'm sorry that all I can give you is words on a screen,* bene_castigat writes.

*what? no! dont be sorry, that's so much. that means everything to me.*

*You,* bene_castigat writes, *deserve to hold your partners to higher standards than you do. Much higher.*

For a little while, Martin says nothing, and neither does bene_castigat. It feels almost companionable, sitting together in silence.

Then bene_castigat writes, *If you find yourself dropping later tonight, tomorrow, or at any time, don't hesitate to message me, okay? I'll leave my notifications audible.*

A lump rises in Martin's throat. He doesn't want to be told this is just decency again, though, so all he says is, *Thank you.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Undernegotiated D/s and impact  
> \- A lot of crying  
> \- Nonsexual kink  
> \- Correcting someone's grammar unasked (seriously that's a dick move, don't do that)


	5. Chapter 5

For the rest of the weekend, Martin doesn't send bene_castigat the first message. He doesn't have to; on Saturday morning at 10am sharp he receives a *How are you doing?*

Martin takes a moment to answer this fully and truthfully. *drained, a bit, but in a good way. like after a really hard crying fit.* He considers. *which is what actually happened. thx, almost makes me glad I'm not on T, I'd miss crying. at least, that's what I heard its like for some guys on it.* He cringes a little at the sight of the words. Wow, way to overshare.

He's wondering whether to delete them when bene_castigat answers, *It's had that effect for me as well, but I prefer it that way. I abhor crying myself.*

That gets Martin biting his lip and typing, *I hope your,* he pauses, thinks, and retypes, *you're not buying into any of that 'boys don't cry' shit.*

*I don't dislike crying because I'm a man. I'm told I dislike crying because I'm emotionally constipated and possibly suffering from alexithymia. I would argue that firstly, I know perfectly well what I'm feeling most of the time, it just doesn't match up with what people think I should feel; and secondly, _suffering_ seems to me like a gross exaggeration. _Mildly inconvenienced by_ would be more apt.*

Now Martin's lip-biting has become a safeguard to keep from bursting into a fit of giggles. He also takes a moment to surreptitiously google alexithymia, because context clues are great but he doesn't want to get this wrong and look stupid. *none of this is convincing me the emotionally constipated part is wrong.*

*Did I at any point say it was?*

The giggles escape Martin. He feels giddy, bubbly. *thank you,* he writes on impulse. *I feel good. really good.*

bene_castigat simply writes, *I'm glad.* He follows it up with, *I felt a little out of my depth, to be perfectly honest. Last night could have been an unmitigated disaster; I'm inordinately pleased that, by whatever stroke of luck, I've managed not to muck it up.*

Oh. *so you didn't have a good time?*

*I had a wonderful time,* bene_castigat writes. Unexpected warmth blooms in Martin's chest. *I would love to do it again, except I wouldn't want you to be so unhappy to begin with. If you'll forgive me for saying, making you cry was a privilege I hope to be granted again.*

Fuck, the guy has a way with words. *Id like that too.* Martin's thighs clench together with a sharp pang of arousal. *maybe if you're not too tired, we could...?*

*Mm. Intriguing thought. I don't think I'm up for anything as intense as last night, however.*

*oh no me neither,* Martin hastens to reassure. *maybe just call me a slut until I come.*

*Greedy little thing,* bene_castigat writes, in a way that feels almost fond. *I've had a thought, actually - how do you feel about your arse getting fucked?*

Arousal pools in Martin's belly, hot as his blushing cheeks. *I think that's a really sexy idea but I've never done anything with it.*

*Perfect,* he writes. A tiny shudder goes through Martin. *Do you want me to talk you through fingering your tight hole?*

A whimper escapes Martin. It feels like a waste to make noises when bene_castigat can't hear him. *yes. do you want me to turn my audio on?*

*Please do.*

Martin goes through the steps of putting on his makeshift gag, and fetches the water-based lube he keeps in his dresser for times when his body isn’t cooperating. *ready.*

*Good. First of all, take your trousers and pants off. Put a towel down on the sofa so you won't have to worry about staining.*

*oh, good thought.* He does that.

*Thank you. Now lie back and make yourself comfortable. Can you do that while still looking at your phone? You don't have to type, just call out once for no, twice for yes.*

Martin brings the coffee table close and props the phone against an empty tea cup that by all rights should have gone to the sink. Then he says, muffled through the gag, "Yes. Yes."

*I heard that. Lovely. If I ask you to play with your nipples without taking off your shirt, do you feel you'd think bad about it?*

Martin picks up the phone to type, *dunno. willing to risk it.*

After a few moments, bene_castigat writes, *Not today, I think. But touch your belly for me.* Martin does, uttering a low groan. He's momentarily worried that bene_castigat will think he's saying "No," but apparently the sound is distinct enough not to cause problems. *Does it feel nice?*

"Yes. Yes."

*Do you want to wait for it? To let me keep teasing you and enjoying you while you know what's coming next?*

It's a tempting thought, but Martin is pretty wound up already and not feeling up for a prolonged session. He says, "No," once.

*Alright. In that case, I want you to spread your legs. Pet your back hole, don't try to penetrate yourself. Does that feel alright?*

It mostly feels weird, being touched in a place where he's not used to it. But, "Yes. Yes."

*Just rub little circles around it, and remember you're going to have some stranger tell you to finger your arse.* A moan rips its way from Martin's mouth, unexpected. *Do you like that? Are you looking forward to that, little slut?*

"Yes." He suddenly feels like there's not enough air in the room. "Yes."

*This is just the beginning,* bene_castigat types, merciless. *I'll work you so your hole is loose and gaping, and then let everyone see what a mess I've made of you. What a mess you are, to let me.*

Martin whimpers, chest straining upwards. He wants his nipples touched so bad.

*You must be so hot inside, your body must want this so much. Can it take your fingertip? Get it wet and try, but don't force it."

Martin does try, but his finger sinks in to the first knuckle without any conscious action on his end. His face feels hot. Awkwardly, he reaches for his phone and types with his left hand, *first knuckle in. just happened. sorry.*

*Never be sorry for what a wonderful slut you are,* bene_castigat writes. *You're made to be a fucktoy, after all. I just wanted to make sure you didn't damage yourself; apparently I didn't need to be that careful. Take your finger out, now.*

Martin does, and makes a small whine at the loss.

*Mm, lovely noise. You like to be filled, don't you?* A pause, and then, *I asked you a question, slut.*

"Yes. Yes." Martin's really glad of the towel. He's so wet it's leaking out, probably making a wet spot.

*That's right. Push your finger deep in. As deep as it can go without you hurting yourself.*

A little push is all it takes, and Martin has his finger inside him to the third knuckle. He clenches around himself, shockingly tight and so hot, the intrusion making something in him squirm with shame and delight.

*Fuck yourself with your finger. Slowly.*

Martin tries, he really does, but pretty soon he's got his finger pushed all the way inside him to the base, moving in and out of him with soft wet noises. His mouth's making noises, too, little "Uh," sounds that he can't contain.

*Can't hold back, can you? So needy. Do you just live like this? Go to the store hoping someone will realize what you are, take you to the back and use you? Go to work and dream of becoming an office amenity?*

Martin sobs because this is _not fair_ , he's so turned on he's about to cry with it and he wants so badly to come but he can't, not like this.

*Aw, are you feeling empty? Wishing your front hole had something to stuff it as well? Maybe your sweet mouth while I'm at it. Get you filled up like you should be. I'd need a ten-person team to work you over properly and they'd all be worn out before you're sated, isn't that so?*

Not fair. Not fair. He can't come like this, he _can't_ \--

And then he does, gushing liquid, squealing in surprise as much as pleasure. Fuck. That's the weirdest orgasm he's ever had.

A silence greets him on the other end. Then, a moment later, bene_castigat writes, *That sounded an awful lot like you coming.*

"Yes, yes," Martin says. He picks up the phone with his left hand. *that was so weird. I didn't know I could come like that.*

*That's information that I'm going to hold near and dear to my heart,* bene_castigat tells him. Martin grins so widely his cheeks hurt. *Thank you for this. It was exceedingly satisfying.*

Martin has a little chuckle over that. _Satisfying_ , what? bene_castigat sounds like he's talking about a meal he's had, not about sex. *yw, I had a good time myself.*

bene_castigat talks him through aftercare. Then he writes, *I'm afraid I'll probably spend the rest of the weekend sleeping. Do write if you need anything, but be aware I won't be up for scening.*

*yeah, that makes sense. you've had a hard week, you need your rest.*

*And the same goes to you,* bene_castigat writes. *Rest. Try and get out if you can, while the weather permits. Eat something that didn't come from a box.*

*judging my eating habits is a hard limit, knock that off.* He means that as a joke, mostly.

He's still gratified to receive in response, *You're right. I apologize, and it won't happen again.*

*thank you,* he types again, at a loss for further words. *thank you. thank you. you made me feel really good.*

*Thank you for letting me,* bene_castigat writes, and sends Martin to take a nap.

* * *

Sunday is nothing out of the ordinary. Martin cleans up the flat, calls his mum (she doesn't take it), takes a walk and tries to make nice with the neighborhood stray cats. One grey and white tabby deigns to allow Martin to pet it. Weather's nice.

On Monday, Martin's whistling on his way to the tube. He's almost tempted to send bene_castigat a little note, something inane about how nicely the birds are chirping and the fleeting warmth of the sun on his back, but reins himself in. He doesn't want to make the man worry for no reason, or bother him if he might not like to be bothered.

That second thought stings more than Martin would have expected it to. Going down the stairs to the tube station, he stares at the wall until a thought coagulates in him: _You have a crush on him._

Fucking _bollocks_. Exactly what he'd needed, another unattainable crush. Martin thoroughly ignores the hopeful little voice in his head that wonders whether, if the guy's been willing to scene with him repeatedly, he's not so unattainable at all.

Yeah, right. Martin is realistic and he knows what he's good for. Relationship material is not it, however unhappy he might be about it.

* * *

As he walks into the office, familiar dread settles over Martin. It's slightly mollified when Sasha and Tim cordially nod at him on their way in, but as he hears faint noises behind the door to Jon's office, it spikes again.

Unquiet builds in him, his hands growing unsteady when he tries to stack files on his desk and everything falls to the floor. He hurriedly goes to pick them up and just barely manages not to spill his tea on them as well.

Before Martin can tidy up this mess he'd made, Jon emerges from his office. "Would you please come in? All of you." He walks back into his office without a word.

Sasha, Tim, and Martin trade baffled, worried looks. Martin feels a jolt of warmth at being included, then guilt for his brief happiness and worry at Jon's behavior. He wishes he could justify messaging bene_castigat. Maybe after this meeting is over.

They file into Jon's office. "Sit down," he tells them, already sat behind his desk. For once he's not holding any piece of paper, nor multitasking talking to them with clicking away at his keyboard. He remains quiet as they shuffle to their seats; Tim has to go out and bring his desk chair.

Once they're all sat, Jon says, "It's been brought to my attention that I haven't been doing my best as your direct superior." Martin can feel all the assistants tense up together, waiting for Jon to explain. "You have done an exemplary job this past week, and I wanted to thank you for that. Your productivity was incredible. I'm very pleased."

There are a few more moments of silence as they all wait for the other shoe to drop. Jon doesn't sound pleased; he sounds like he always does, formal and a little impatient. But as he stares at them, Sasha and Tim slowly loosen up. Sasha smiles uncertainly and says, "Thank you?"

"You're very welcome. Please don't let me keep you from your work for any longer - except you, Martin. Please stay for another minute."

Martin's heart, tentatively lightened, drops again. Of course. Jon didn't mean him, and he wants to make that explicit. Nice of him not to do it in front of Sasha and Tim, at least, letting him save face around his coworkers.

What Jon says, though, is, "I feel I've been very unfair to you in particular, Martin. Whatever I think about your capability," Martin flinches, "it can't have helped to get no feedback from me except snide remarks. I apologize for that sincerely, and hope you can forgive me."

Martin blinks, and blinks again. "What?" It's not uncommon for him to feel stupid around Jon, who's sharp and quick and beautiful. Now, however, he feels as intelligent as a rubber duck. 

He's fully expecting Jon to, if not yell, at least roll his eyes and repeat himself in a scathingly sarcastic tone. Instead Jon says, in an even voice, "I realize this may come as a surprise. I've had reason to rethink my behavior, and I hope I can do better in the future."

Oh, no, Martin's eyes are prickling. If he starts crying in front of Jon, he'll _die_. No maybe about it. He blurts out, "What reason's that?"

Jon's face goes blank at once, and Martin flinches again. He knows he should not have asked that; some day he hopes his mouth will learn to consult his brain before garbage comes out. "An acquaintance," Jon says. "Not anyone you'd know."

Martin gives Jon a sideways look. Jon's a terrible liar, everyone in the archives knows that. Martin would think maybe Elias had put him up to this, had told Jon to stop being such an insufferable prick to his employees. But Jon seems to mean what he said. "Okay," Martin says. "Okay. Thank you, uh, lovely of you to say so. I'll just." He stands up and starts to retreat.

Jon raises a hand. "Do you have a clear idea of what you need to do next?"

There's a _Yes, of course,_ ready and waiting on the tip of Martin's tongue, just so he can escape this conversation already. But if he did that, he really would be slacking on the job. Jon's offering to help. Martin should accept that help, as mortifying as it is.

"No," he sighs, and sits back down. "If you could help me break it down..." bene_castigat had better be proud of him for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes:
> 
> \- anal fingering  
> \- fic-typical humiliation  
> \- gangbang mention  
> \- offering unasked opinion about someone's eating habits (srsly that's a douche move)  
> \- casual mention of parental abandonment via Martin's mum


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to mx_carter for beta, and additional thanks to Code16 and Exmoose for helping me work through smut characterization.

The shop looks weirdly sterile from the outside. It has a sign saying "Our Secret" in purple, and a logo featuring a man and a woman holding hands. 

The heteronormativity is not promising, but he'd come this far. Turning back now would feel cowardly. Martin takes a deep breath and steps inside.

His first glance at the insides reminds him more than anything of an Apple store, all shiny glass cabinets proudly displaying the merchandise. There is the minor difference that instead of iPhones, the shelves show off dildos. Otherwise the resemblance is downright uncanny, down to the customer service smile the woman at the cash register is wearing. 

Right. He came here for a reason, and that reason isn't staring at a candy red vibrator that looks like a cross between a tulip and a tongue. He goes to the cashier and asks about gags. 

She leads him to a small section labelled "saucy!" where there are a few crops, blindfolds, sexy dice and fuzzy handcuffs proclaiming to be "Fifty Shades brand". There is also a ball gag, red with black faux-leather straps. "It's medical grade silicone," says the salesperson. 

It's more expensive than the ones Martin found online, but that's the price one pays for being too impatient to wait for a delivery. Besides, Martin's in a celebratory mood. He can splurge a little.

He pays for the gag and escapes the store before the salesperson can convince him to buy chocolate body paint. The bag he gets is a plain black one, but Martin still squirms on the tube, worrying someone might realize what he's carrying. 

Once he's home, he takes the gag out of its packaging and sets in on his bed, smoothing the sheets under. He takes three pictures before he's satisfied enough with the result to send it to bene_castigat. 

He's not really expecting a reply. The chirp of his phone a few moments later is a pleasant surprise. *Nice,* bene_castigat says. *I'd love to see it in your mouth.*

With shaking hands, Martin puts the gag on. He likes how it feels more than he would have expected, the hug of the straps firm and solid around his head. The ball fits nicely in his mouth, and has little holes in it so Martin has no trouble breathing. He takes a picture, cropping carefully to only show his lips stretched around the toy. 

*Lovely,* bene_castigat writes. *Does that mean you want to be played with?*

A deep shudder goes through Martin. Fuck, does he ever. He turns on the audio and types enthusiastic agreement. 

*I think my challenge for today,* bene_castigat writes, *is to cause you to make as much noise as I can. Are you up for letting me try?*

Feeling bold, Martin writes, *up for trying sure. no promises to help you with it.*

*I trust I won't need your help. Get all your clothes off and lie on the bed, so your tits are accessible but you can still see your phone screen.* Once Martin's positioned himself and told him, bene_castigat writes, *Are your nipples hard?*

*yes*

*Greedy. Play with them and don't touch yourself any other way until I say you can.*

Arousal and wariness battle inside of Martin. Being teased can be hot or make him cry in a bad way, and he's not sure which this is going to be. He bites his lip. After a short deliberation, he types, *will you let me touch myself later? indefinite denial puts me in a bad place.* He hesitates, but recklessly adds, *so is telling me my arousal is bad or disgusting. if you don't like that I'm turned on, I won't enjoy it.*

*I most certainly do like it. Thank you for telling me, I will make note of this. My intention was to tease you for a while, and then have you make yourself come as many times as you can stand. Does that work for you?* 

Arousal demolishes wariness. *yes that's good.*

*Excellent. Lick your fingertips and rub them over your nipples.*

The phone’s time display is small enough that Martin can't say how long bene_castigat spends filthily talking him through playing with his tits. 

*How do you feel about being called a bitch?* bene_castigat asks at one point, as Martin's trying to catch his breath.

*really sexy under the right circumstances,* Martin writes. *bad otherwise.*

*And those circumstances would be?*

The shame that hits Martin is red-hot and delicious. His nipples keep sending buzzes of pleasure down his spine, and he's distantly aware of how wet he is. He wants to tell bene_castigat and be mocked for having such a ridiculous fantasy. He's deathly afraid of that happening.

bene_castigat seems to pick up on his hesitation. *If you want, I could let it go. Or I could make you tell me.*

For a moment, Martin closes his eyes and exhales. Then he types, *make me.*

*I want you to tell me,* bene_castigat writes. *I find your fantasies compelling and I want to use them to torment you into coming until you can't walk. Will you tell me?*

Fuck, he wants to. *its a whole scenario and it's dumb.*

*If you think that has made me any less curious, you're sorely mistaken. Go on. I'm listening.*

Haltingly, Martin types, *so basically a whole werewolf porn thing. with,* he hesitates, but writes, *knotting. and breeding. and then bitch is more, idk, factual?* He presses enter, then hastily follows it with, *I know it's awful, sorry.*

*That connects well with a theme of dehumanization you seem to enjoy,* bene_castigat writes. *I don't think it's awful in the least, and you have nothing to apologize for. Tell me more. What usually happens in this scenario?*

Martin bites his lip. He types, *I just. get fucked by a whole pack of werewolves. they knot me, they call me their bitch, they say they'll put a big litter of pups in me. and then I'm knocked up, so big I can't walk and have to lie there and take what they give me and be grateful.* He hunches down. *I realize it's a cliche.*

*Clichés become that for a reason. If it resonates with you, there's nothing wrong with it. And I must say the idea of you fat and helpless is appealing.*

_So, the way I am all the time,_ Martin thinks, even as he blushes. *yeah?*

*Yes. Tell me more.*

Martin wracks his brain for more details. *they play with my tits, and laugh at me when my milk comes, and milk me so there'll be plenty of food for the cubs. they knot me everywhere, not just my pussy but my mouth and arse, too. they get me sloppy and loose and then they fist me and put stuff in me. big things.* 

*That's a nice thought. I like imagining you like this, a whore for the wolf pack to use, an incubator. You'd get so wet for them, wouldn't you?*

Martin whines. Fuck, he's wet now, from the fantasy he'd just unspooled and the humiliation of bene_castigat knowing that about him. *I would.* Daringly, he adds, *like I do for you.*

*Mm, that's something I'm very glad to know. Are you wet now?*

*yes.* Embarrassingly so, but isn't that the entire point of these sessions?

*Getting all open and slick from telling me about your fantasies? How depraved that must make you feel. I wonder what else I could pry out of you if I tried hard enough. What other secrets do you have that make you feel ashamed?*

Martin makes a noise mostly like a squeak. *oh god pls tell me to touch myself*

*I'd like a bit more specificity, please. What exactly do you want to be touching?*

*my,* Martin stalls for a moment as the word _clit_ will not allow itself to be written. *cock,* he finally types. 

*Alright, do that. Rub your cock nice and hard for me, make yourself come, and tell me when you're done. Go on.*

Martin just manages to type out *yes* before shoving his hand down his pants. He grinds against the heel of it, making little muffled sounds of pleasure. Fuck, this is good. But he's not quite getting there. He needs something, he needs--

Clumsily, with his left hand, Martin types, *tell me again id look hot preg?* In the haze of arousal, he can't even think to be embarrassed to want that.

*You would. Pinned in place by the weight of your belly, unable to move even to defend yourself, relying on the mercy of those who have none for you.*

Martin's squealing now, slippery hand moving fast on his cock.

*Taking a knot in your arse, and you cry because you wanted that in your greedy little pussy instead. Want to come so badly but they won't let you, just laugh at you and use you.* There's more, but Martin's too lost in climax to read it. 

Martin opens his eyes, undoes the gag with clumsy fingers and pants. Fuck, that was intense. His eyes float over the rest of what bene_castigat's written - Christ, there's four whole paragraphs. Long ones.

Then bene_castigat writes, *Was that alright? I'm told I can go on at times. I might have gotten carried away.*

Martin dazedly scans the text. The words _cock_ and _tits_ feature rather a lot, but then there's one paragraph that starts with "The hierarchical structure of a werewolf pack is influenced by human and canine urges both," which makes Martin burst into a fit of giggles.

It's only then that he realizes he’s not wearing the gag and hasn't shut off the audio yet. He does the latter in a hurry. *sorry. not laughing at you promise.*

*You can say if you are. I can take it.*

Fondness takes Martin by the nape of his neck and shakes him. *I'm really not. it's wonderful. i love it. i'm just amazed you came up with all that while I was having an orgasm.*

*It's a gift,* bene_castigat writes. Martin imagines his lofty tone and giggles some more. 

Martin goes to wash his hands. When he returns, he lies on his back and reads through what bene_castigat wrote to him. Read with eyes that aren't fogged by arousal, it's a mixture of degrading, startlingly sexy, and dorky to an unimaginable degree. *did you really start talking about genealogy in werewolf society while we were having cybersex," Martin writes. He adds, *i dont mind! I'm impressed! just, that you'd come up with that, wow.*

*Well, if they habitually have a ratio that skews heavily in favor of the people generating semen than the ones incubating, so to speak,* bene_castigat starts writing. Martin just reads with an increasingly dopey grin.

* * *

At ten in the morning, regular as clockwork, Jon opens the door to his office and asks Martin to come in. 

Despite the fact that they've now been doing this for two weeks, Martin still feels the weight of anxiety when he hears Jon say his name. It's growing less and less, the more they have these little meetings.

They're short affairs. Jon asks what Martin's done yesterday and what he intends to do today; Martin's taken to keeping a list ready, so he doesn't get flustered and forget everything he'd ever done since beginning this job. Then they discuss what Martin can do to work more efficiently. Jon has recommended him some books, which Martin reads on the evenings when he's not occupied with his online obsession. 

Weirdly, Martin thinks he's getting a better handle on Jon's body language and expression in general. When he's not recording statements, Jon isn't always careful with how he modulates his voice - he'll drop into a low murmur or speak forcefully and loudly if something has him engaged. After the first few times, Martin's taken to tentatively letting Jon know, and Jon always nods and adjusts his speech. 

Jon's expression, too, seems to default into a scowl. He really is frequently annoyed, but some of the time he's intrigued or lost in thought or pleased, and that's just how his face looks. 

He's nicer, too, when Martin offers him tea, and actually takes him up on it more often. He won't tell Martin how he likes it, just shrugging and mumbling that whatever is fine, but Martin's not unobservant. He can tell that Jon likes it strong and sweet by the one time he catches Jon smiling. It's only at the end of the day that Martin realizes that Jon's smile looks exactly like the one he's been imagining for bene_castigat.

God, he's screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- a fantasy including:  
> \+ knotting (oral, vaginal, and anal)  
> \+ werewolf sex  
> \+ breeding kink  
> \+ trans guy pregnancy and lactation  
> \+ gangbangs


	7. Chapter 7

Everything is going great, which is of course why dysphoria decides to hit like a freight train.

Martin logs into Discord by force of habit, but once he's there he freezes. Some company he'd be, the state he’s in. He can't think of his chest getting sexualized right now, can barely think about it at all.

With his usual impeccable timing, bene_castigat chooses that moment to send, *Here?*

Fuck. Martin sighs and types, *yes but in a shitty mood. not much fun tonight, sorry.*

For a moment there is no response, and Martin resigns himself to another evening spent reading Jon's stuffy books about proper research procedure. Then, bene_castigat writes, *Do you want to talk about it?*

*we don't rly have that kind of relationship tho,* Martin types, even as he berates himself for spelling this out. But if there's one thing he hates more than his body right now, it's the idea of bene_castigat offering his help out of pity or duty.

*If you don't want to, of course you don't have to.* After a brief hesitation, bene_castigat writes, *However, I'm not opposed to us having that type of relationship. If you wanted to tell me, I'd like that.*

That's just beyond the pale. *why? why would you like that?*

The answer takes a little while to come. *At the risk of sounding callous, I find you fascinating in many respects. This is one of them.* Then he adds, *I also prefer to help you, if I can. I apologize, that first part was insensitive.*

*did you mean it tho?* Martin types, heart hammering in his chest.

After another short wait, the words appear: *I did. But your well-being is far more important than my curiosity.*

Maybe so, but it's the latter that allows Martin to type, *bad dysphoria week. real bad. sleep in my binder bad.*

*I see. My sympathies. Do you think putting your chest away might help?*

*but we haven't played,* writes Martin, who's apparently determined to shoot himself in the foot today. *I mean, I'd want to! just not sure why you would.*

*Believe it or not, my concern for your well-being doesn't stop at making sure playing with me leaves you in one piece. It's a simple enough thing to do, if it helps.*

Martin blinks. Eyes prickling, he writes, *oh. yes pls.*

*Alright. Please imagine that we're putting your chest away. You don't have to think about it or worry about it. It's only your body and nothing to be alarmed by.*

That helps a bit, enough that Martin may actually be up for showering without crying. He takes a deep, ragged breath. *thank you.*

*You're very welcome.* Then those three dots show up and disappear several times.

Martin narrows his eyes at them. *spit it out already.*

After another second, bene_castigat writes, *Do you have someone to talk to, about trans issues?*

*like a therapist? no.* Martin's well aware he probably needs several years' worth of therapy, but... no. That's just not going to happen.

*I was thinking more along the lines of a peer group.* The dots appear for a few seconds, then, *Admittedly, in my own area I only know of one that's any good, but I hear it has sister groups. Try looking up EnTransed.*

Not quite of his own volition, Martin does exactly that. Seems like there's a chapter in London, a few stations away from the Institute. *looks like they have one here.* Martin briefly wonders whether that's the chapter that bene_castigat attends - but no, this is London, surely he'd know of more than one good group if he lived here.

*That's good to know. I can't vouch for any of the sister groups, but it's worth a try.*

Briefly, Martin shuts his eyes. Then he breathes deep and types, *fine. but I'm not promising to go or anything.*

*Of course not. So long as you have the information handy.*

Martin’s about ready to sign off when he sees bene_castigat is still writing.

*If you're interested, in the meanwhile I've had more thoughts about your werewolf scenario - nothing involving anatomical issues, mostly thoughts about history and politics. Would you like to hear?*

*yes,* Martin types, helplessly endeared.

* * *

The next day, Martin's in a good enough mood to whistle as he makes his tea. He rubs at his eyes ruefully. He really should not have stayed up that late, but bene_castigat was unexpectedly fun to talk to even outside of sessions. His creativity was apparently not just for kink scenarios.

Or, alright, not only for the sexy part of kink scenarios.

He's drifting a bit, a combination of lack of sleep and hazy daydreams of what he and bene_castigat could explore next, and he nearly brains Elias Bouchard with the door to the archives.

"Oh my God!" Martin takes a step back, hands held in front of him, like he needs to keep them under supervision lest they do further crimes. "I'm so sorry! I, I didn't see you, I--"

"Yes, that's quite clear," Elias says coldly, brushing invisible dust off his impeccable suit jacket. "Of course, one can't expect such a _highly qualified_ employee to watch where he's going, now can we?" He gives Martin a thin smile devoid of any warmth and leaves.

It feels like standing on breaking ice, being submerged in freezing water without the comforting numbness of hypothermia and sinking still deeper. _Oh no,_ is all Martin can think, over and over again. _Oh no oh no oh no._

Elias _knows_.

_How_ is a question barely worth asking. Martin hadn’t even tried to fake believable credentials, he'd just lied through his teeth. One call to the university he'd put down or any of his supposed previous places of employment would have given him away. He hadn't been able to believe nobody had caught on.

Except, apparently, somebody had. Elias had. And he'd been... what? Waiting to fire him, for some obscure reason?

Martin shakes his head. That made no sense. If Elias wanted to fire him, he could very well do that without resorting to sarcastic compliments. There was nothing to worry about. He was making a big deal over nothing.

* * *

Martin got no work done that day whatsoever.

He kind of occupied himself pretending to do inventory; meaning, hiding in the stacks with some of the oldest, dustiest boxes of documents. Got him sneezing, but at least no one was there to witness his shame.

"Martin?"

At least, no one up till now. Martin cringes, hunching down over the nearest box like a gargoyle. He doesn't call out, childishly hoping Jon will go away if he can't find Martin.

No such luck. Jon calls for him three or four times before nearly stumbling over him. He blinks at Martin. "Good lord, Martin, what are you doing here?"

Martin can pinpoint the exact moment that he loses his final shred of dignity, and that is the moment he starts crying under Jon's relentless gaze. He tries to stifle himself but pitiful little whimpers still come out. He sniffles. Closes his eyes in abject misery. "I'm sorry."

He hears shuffling. Jon sounds closer, almost intimate, when he asks, "What happened?"

Martin's a good liar. Usually, when he's fueled by anything more than desperation and Red Bull, he can come up with a good comprehensive story to neatly tie together any loose ends, with enough free-floating facts for verisimilitude. There are any number of fabrications he could tell Jon that he'd presumably buy wholesale.

What comes out of his mouth is, "I lied."

Jon is silent for a moment. When he says, "Martin?" it's guarded.

Martin swallows and sniffles some more. "About my qualifications. I don't have a degree, I don't have experience, I don't have anything. And now Elias knows and he's going to fire me and I don't know what to do."

Jon exhales. When he speaks, his voice is gentle enough to startle a fresh bout of tears out of Martin. "He's going to do no such thing."

That gets Martin to open his eyes. He blinks at Jon. "What?"

"I must say I've had my suspicions, given rather fundamental gaps in your knowledge," Jon says. He’s sat down now, a bare few centimeters away from Martin, who shrinks in on himself. "But given your lack of education and experience, with a little support, you've performed admirably in every task I've set you. If Elias means to fire you, I would argue that to do that now, after we've put all this effort into training you and when you've shown such promise, is criminally wasteful and downright _stupid_."

Martin stares at Jon. To his further mortification, he's now giggling, intermingled with sobs. "You're going to tell Elias Bouchard that you think he's stupid? Over me?" He loses his balance and clumsily falls into a seated position. 

"Yes," Jon says, simple and fierce, and Martin feels like his heart will explode with how much he loves him. 

"Thank you," he says, pathetic and inadequate.

"You're welcome. I'm only defending the best interests of my department." Jon stands up and offers Martin a hand, which he takes. "You should probably go home. Everyone else has left already."

"Oh." Martin peeks at his phone: it's coming on seven. "What about you? Are you going home?"

"In a little bit. I'll walk you to the door, though. Come on." Jon sets forth at a brisk pace, and Martin hurries to follow.

At the door, Jon turns to him, opens his mouth, frowns, and shuts it.

"Jon? What is it?"

Jon shakes his head. "I don't know. Déjà vu. I thought... nevermind, it's late and my mind is playing tricks on me. I should go home as well."

That night, Martin doesn't log on to Discord, and he doesn't wank. He takes his binder off carefully before bed and lies down, heart racing, staring up at the ceiling, full to the brim with feelings that haven't yet sedimented into poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- some acute dysphoria, not described in detail  
> \- anxiety and embarrassment  
> \- Elias making a brief cameo to be a douche  
> \- no sex


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exmoose held my hand through writing this entire chapter, so, thanks for that 💓

The Facebook group's banner is a trans flag with a twenty-sided die in the middle. It boasts gaming meetups every other week, and "regular socials" - whatever that means - in between. Presumably those are the meetings bene_castigat was referring to. Unless the chapter near him does something completely different.

The next meeting is a regular social, and the event for it says to register with Georgie Barker, and gives an email address. Martin spends far too long over a one line message, debating scrapping the thing entirely.

Then his Discord chimes, and Martin's priorities abruptly flip. He hastily sends the email and switches to the chat, where bene_castigat has written some of the nicest words in the English language: *So I've had some thoughts about milking...*

It turns out bene_castigat's thoughts are rather more detailed than Martin's. To be fair, Martin's ideas are less fully formed concepts and more jumbled notions glued together with arousal. *I'll spare you the anatomical structure of human cows' teats,* bene_castigat writes. *For now.*

Martin giggles. *ooh, scary.* Actually, the idea of squirming for orgasm while bene_castigat forces him through a treatise on the origin of the human cow species isn't without appeal.

*You should be scared, I've been known to make lesser men lose consciousness in less than five minutes. Do you have your gag in?*

Not fifteen minutes later, Martin is gasping, inhaling short sharp breaths through his nose as bene_castigat mercilessly pushes his buttons one at a time.

*They attach a chain to your pretty collar and lead you down a long corridor. The concrete floor is harsh on your knees, but you're being good, and that makes it worthwhile, doesn't it?*

Martin swallows. *yes*

*At the end there's a door, which creaks when they open it. Inside there's a huge contraption you don't recognize, all gleaming steel and leather. Your owner has to help you understand how to fit yourself in, like they always do. They take care with you. After all, you are their prize milker.*

A soundless wail escapes Martin. He squirms with wanting to grind into his seat. *pls i want to be good*

*You are. You're wonderful.* Martin doesn't stifle the sob that emerges at the words. *Is this good crying?* At Martin's affirmative, he writes, *What a good boy you are, responding so well for me. Soon you'll get your reward.*

Martin shudders and tries to get his breathing under control. Soon. Soon.

*Your owner lays you belly-down on a padded bench, and straps you in. They push your legs apart, and you begin to understand what this is. Then they bring up two cups, which attach to your teats, and flip a switch. The whole thing begins to shake, and your poor, untended cock perks up from the vibration.*

Meanwhile, in real life, Martin's poor, untended cock really would like some attention. But he holds fast. _Soon._

*The cups suck at your teats, harder than any milking you've had before. You realize your owners have been preparing you for this for a while, with increasingly demanding milkings. The pull on your nipple is painful, like a need you can't satisfy, but then your milk lets down and you can't help enjoying it. Pinch your nipples.*

Martin's hand rises to his chest, unbidden, and he whimpers at the sensation. Fuck, he wants more, wants that ruthless suction from bene_castigat's description. On a whim, he types, *wish you were here to bite them.* He sends the message before he can have time to think better of it.

*I'd like that, too,* bene_castigat writes. *Your sweet hard nipples on my tongue, so sensitive for me. I'd bite your teats till they reddened up nicely for me, till you cried with how sore they were and still wanted me to keep going.*

That gets a very embarrassing noise out of Martin, except he's past embarrassment, caring, or morality. He just wants to be good for bene_castigat, and to come. He writes that.

*Lovely. Just how I want you. Do you have your dildo?* At Martin's *yes", bene_castigat writes, *Put the tip right at your front hole, but don't push it in yet.*

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Martin's _this_ close to just shoving the thing inside him. At this point he doesn't think he'd need much else. *ok,* he types with trembling fingers.

*Good. In two minutes, I'll let you rub your cock. If you want the toy, though, you'll have to do something extra.*

Martin's eyes are watering with how much he wants to come. *what?*

*You know what sound a cow makes, don't you? I want to hear you being a good little cow.*

For a moment, Martin can't parse the sentence, can't comprehend the words in front of him. *you want me to moo??*

*I do. Don't you want to? Don't you want me to hear you being so good for me, even as I'm degrading you and showing what an animal you are? Don't you want to know that you _are_ an animal, making mindless noises for me?*

Martin's gut churns. The fucking thing is, he does want that. It sounds good, so fucking good, to just-- let go. But he can't. He physically can't. He will die on the spot.

The three little dots dance on the screen, and bene_castigat writes, *You're such a good boy, such a good cow. Won't you show me how much? How obedient you are?*

Oh, God, how is Martin supposed to say no to that?

His first try is choked, a near whisper. He can't make the consonants with the gag in his mouth but he knows what lowing cows sound like, the rise of the sound. The second try is better.

In chat, bene_castigat keeps encouraging him. *You're doing wonderfully. You're so good. Just one more time, and you can have the toy.*

This time, the cry rips out of him, a long, groaning, "Ooooooo," followed by sobs.

*Lovely. You're lovely. Give yourself the toy, sweetheart, you've earned it.*

Martin takes in the toy with a sound akin to a scream. He fucks himself with it, sobbing all the while. He doesn't even get to touch his cock before he's convulsing, grinding down on the toy and wishing fervently it was longer, thicker. bene_castigat writes more, writes words Martin can't wrap his mind around, too dazed, too much.

He cuts off the audio, takes off the gag, rubs his face with the back of his hand and tries to catch his breath.

When he looks back to the chat, bene_castigat's words of praise are still there. His eyes skip over them, still too overwhelmed, to the next line: *That sounded intense.*

*it was. good tho.*

*Yeah?*

Martin should stop imagining him smiling Jon's smile, but he's so weak, so hungry for what that smile signifies; that he pleased someone not easily pleased, faced the insurmountable task and achieved it. *yes. very.*

*I'm glad. How are you feeling?*

To Martin's slight surprise, the answer is, *good.* The scene took a lot out of him, but gave a lot back, too.

*Excellent. You've asked for a hug once before.* The three dots appear and disappear. Then, *I wondered if I might ask for one, myself.*

*of course!!!!* Martin writes immediately. *hug hug hug hug.* He bites his lip, embarrassed with his exuberance.

*Thank you. I appreciate that,* bene_castigat writes. *If you're amenable, I'd like to imagine you lying in bed with me.*

That's tantalizing, a new territory they haven't explored, but Martin regretfully types, *i don't think i'm up for more rn.*

After some hesitation, bene_castigat writes, *I was attempting to establish post coital cuddles. If you wanted that.*

*oh!! yes. I do want. thank you.*

*Thank _you_ ,* bene_castigat writes. *Now imagine lying in bed, me lying over you, and blankets wrapped all around us...*

* * *

The EnTransed meeting shares a floor with two lawyers' offices. Martin arrives half an hour early, then spends twenty minutes lurking and hoping nobody yells at him for acting like a creeper.

People file by him, some with little trans flag pins. They ring the bell, open the door, and walk inside. Martin catches a glimpse of another person inside, sitting at a table.

There is no universe in which he sees himself following those people inside. He feels more conspicuous and less passing than ever, with his stupid binder that barely hides anything and his stupid long hair. Nevermind cutting off his tits, why couldn't he cut off his ponytail?

It's five minutes after, and no new people are coming. Martin hunches his shoulders. He's not going to go inside. He might as well go home.

The door opens and a person steps out.

The first thing Martin notices is eye tattoos, everywhere: eyes on their throat and their knuckles and their knees, revealed by a short, flippy skirt. The second thing he notices is a _they/them_ pronoun tag. The third thing he notices is the person's hair, which is a bare few millimetres long and translucent blond. 

"Are you here for the group?" they ask.

Dumbfounded, Martin slowly nods.

"Good. I'm Gerry. Won't you come inside?"

Martin doesn't make a conscious decision to walk in the door, but his feet take him there all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:   
> \- more hucow fantasies, including milking, praise kink and making Martin moo.   
> \- surprise character cameo!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter required a lot of handholding, which exmoose and mx_carter provided, so I'm very grateful to them for that!

The room is loud with something like twenty people who all seem to be talking at once. Martin hangs back for a bit and glances at Gerry. "I should pay, right?"

"It's pay what you can. Strictly donation based," Gerry says. They name the usual average sum; Martin can afford that much. He hands it to Gerry with a little extra. It's a good cause - probably a lot of the people in the room have it rougher than him. "Oh, there's Georgie," Gerry says, indicating a short-haired, bespectacled black woman standing near them. "You should introduce yourself."

With a sinking feeling, Martin realizes they're right. He slinks up to Georgie and tentatively offer his hand. "Um. Hi. I'm Martin?"

She doesn't comment on his tone, just takes his hand and shakes it, smiling warmly. "Good to have you. We still haven't filled all the speaker slots for today, so if you want, we'd be happy to hear about you."

Martin blinks. "I'm sorry, what?'' Once the words have left his mouth, a vague recollection pops up in his mind. The event says something about this, doesn't it?

Instead of berating him for not doing his reading, Georgie says, "The event works like this: first half hour is unstructured mingling, then we have a circle of speakers who tell us things about their experience and answer questions. After that, we split into small groups and discuss anything - there are cards with discussion prompts, but you're welcome to bring up whatever's on your mind."

"Oh! No, no, that's fine, I couldn't possibly," Martin stammers.

Georgie's smile grows gentler. "We don't bite. I won't make you, though, I have an emergency plan."

Weakly, Martin says, "Oh good."

A dapper person appears behind Georgie. "Hey, not to interrupt but we're having a dispute about doritos, can you come?" Georgie turns away with an apologetic smile, leaving Martin bemused in her wake.

He finds the snack table - oddly enough, in the opposite direction from the one Georgie was going - and lurks. It's a good place to catch tail ends of conversations without having to become involved in them himself.

"I'm just making a doll scarf, but look how pretty the yarn is!"

"So they ran out of the gel I need, and I had to go to three different pharmacies until I found one that carried it." "Can't you use more of the lower dosage?" "I don't know, can I do that?"

"Yeah, my metamour just started playing that, now everything I hear is about which colonists survived through the winter..."

"And then my dad started going on about how women are genetically predisposed to hate sex because in the cave days we - and by 'we' he specifically meant him and me - would drag them to our caves by the hair, what the fuck."

Martin resolutely stares down at the biscuits. He tries to think small, invisible thoughts.

Eventually, everybody mills to sit in a rough circle. Martin finds a prime lurking spot in the corridor leading to the bathroom, just outside of the main room. Georgie comes to stand in the middle.

"Hi, everyone! Thank you all for coming today. Our first speaker today is Rena, here to talk about her relationship with her daughter."

Rena is tall and has Ariel-red hair. Her voice wobbles a bit as she takes out a scrap of paper, showing everyone a picture with a red-haired stick figure labelled "mum" in a dress. She starts crying halfway through her brief talk, and Martin lowers his face, face hot with the sympathy tears gathering in his own eyes.

The second speaker is a chirpy young woman with dark hair named Karen; she's apparently a medical professional of some kind, and her section overruns with people asking her questions about various procedures. The next section, with a suited guy named Daniel, runs even longer as he talks about legal aspects of transition.

The fourth speaker is Gerry. Martin finds his eyes drawn to them in a way he can't quite explain; not desire, but his attention seems magnetized to Gerry's slender frame, the subtle swell of their cleavage. To Martin's shame, he can't process any of what they're saying, too mesmerized by how _right_ they look.

He's still dazed by it when Georgie announces the next speaker, and it takes him a few moments to realize he knows the face now scowling at the audience.

"I want to point out," Jon says, "that the only reason I'm here is because my ex is a rotten blackmailer." Georgie blows him a kiss. "I was asked to talk about my experiences as a trans man, particularly ones I found emotionally affecting. No offense, but I would rather die." To Martin's relief, his own giggles are lost in the general sound of laughter in the room. 

Jon shifts. He's looking good, his dark hair pulled back, wearing a neat suit jacket and a button-down with the collar open. "Instead, I will talk about misconceptions the public has on the subject of paranormal experiences, and how to view supposed 'supernatural experiences,'" he air-quotes, "with proper scepticism and rationality. In my defense, I never promised to be interesting."

The subject sounds plenty interesting to Martin, especially with Jon presenting it. Too bad he's entirely too lost in shock to hear any of it. He'd never known Jon was trans, never even suspected. _Of course,_ whispers some dark, rotten corner of his mind. _Of course he'd be perfect in this, as well. You could never measure up._ Jon's voice, his body language - despite his height, nothing about Jon had ever led Martin to so much as consider this option.

After all the earlier conversations about medical procedures, it's not hard to find himself wondering which Jon has had done. HRT, without a question, and his chest looks entirely flat to Martin, not that he'd paid attention to Jon's chest. Much. What else? A hysterectomy?

Thankfully, Martin manages to tear himself away from that line of thought before he starts wondering what exactly Jon has in his pants. It's inappropriate, and none of his business, and a much more intriguing question than it should be. Martin cringes at himself. Can you be a chaser if you're trans yourself? Does Martin, in all his non-op glory, even count as trans enough to be excused?

After Jon is done, Georgie steps into the middle of the circle and claps her hands. "Alright, everyone, you know the drill: small groups, discussion prompt cards at the reception table."

Martin keeps tracking Jon, who has ensconced himself in a corner group with Gerry and two other people Martin doesn't know. Jon's facing the wall, which makes sneaking out of the room relatively easy and almost successful.

On his way out, Martin freezes at the sound of his name being called. He turns around and breathes a sigh of relief to see it's Georgie. "Is everything alright?" she says. "You look a little...." She waggles her hand.

Martin fortifies himself and affects a smile. "Oh, I'm fine, sorry, have to leave early to help my mum." The lie glides off his tongue easily. 

Georgie seems unimpressed, and a little sad. "Okay. If there's anything you need to help you stay through the meeting, please let me know and I'll do what I can."

"No, no, it's perfectly lovely. Have to go now."

"I hope we'll see you here again," she calls after him, but he's already out the door.

* * *

Evening comes, and unease twists in Martin like a live snake coiled in his chest. He resolved that he's not going to talk to bene_castigat about his failed venture to the trans meetup. 

He's making no such resolution not to talk to him at all. Martin's a weak, weak man, and he knows his limits. 

*Something's bothering you,* bene_castigat writes after not ten minutes of chatting. *What is it?*

Martin doesn't mean to answer, but it comes sliding out anyway. *what if I'm not really trans?*

After a short hesitation, bene_castigat types, *From what I know of you, that seems unlikely. What brings you to ask that?*

Martin swallows. *I don't want to have surgeries.* It feels like a shocking confession to just spill like that. *I hate my body but also idk what body I do want. I don't wanna look like a cis guy.*

*As non-op trans people exist, I fail to see why that would make you any less trans.*

*I know what non-op means,* Martin writes, irritated. *and idk if I want hrt or not. im never gonna pass and I want to have kids and I don't care if they call me mum or dad or grand poobah. and maybe im just a cis girl deluding herself. maybe that's all I am.*

It takes bene_castigat a little while to reply. *I'm afraid I'm not the best source of advice on this. My own experiences have followed closely along the usual narrative: I've known since I was four, I started on blockers in my teens and testosterone when I was eighteen. I haven't had top surgery because I haven't needed it, but I've had a hysterectomy and I'm very pleased with that.*

Martin flinches, tasting bile. *right. thx for sharing.*

*I'm sorry, I'm going about this completely the wrong way,* bene_castigat types. *What I was trying to say is this: does thinking of yourself as a man make you feel, in whatever way, better?*

*...yes?* Martin frowns at his screen suspiciously. *you know that.*

*A friend of mine says the only requirement for being a man or a woman is wanting to be one,* bene_castigat writes. *There's no such thing as not trans enough. You're just as much of a man as I am, and as any cis man is.*

Martin refuses to cry. He wipes a hand over his eyes and sniffles. *idk. some days I just feel like I'm pretending.*

*For what, the vast wealth and fortune that awaits trans people?*

Martin snorts. *dont be a prick.*

*I'm afraid that's in my personality core settings.*

A protective surge rises in Martin. *ur not really, u know? a real prick wouldn't have listened or tried to help. * Foreseeing bene_castigat's customary waving off, he adds, *if that's just being a decent person, fine, but it means you _are _a decent person, which is a lot more than plenty of people.*__

__There is a long hesitation, but finally bene_castigat writes, "Thank you. I find it genuinely touching that you think that.* After another pause, *I've been trying to do better. As a person, in general.*_ _

__*ur doing amazing,* Martin writes with a blaze of conviction. *you're wonderful.*_ _

__*I also wanted to say that cis people usually don't have as much dysphoria as you do.*_ _

__Fondly, Martin wonders whether bene_castigat thought he wouldn't notice the subject change. He rolls with it, though. *does it rly count as dysphoria tho?*_ _

__*It absolutely does. You are upset by your chest and your voice, to mention two things that have impacted our chats. That's a form of dysphoria.*_ _

__Martin hunches and types, *I haven't been minding my chest as much. it helps that someone can enjoy it without misgendering me, you know?*_ _

__*If you want me to show similar appreciation for your voice,* bene_castigat writes, *I'd be happy to.*_ _

__Martin bites his lip. *yeah?*_ _

__*Absolutely. I love the sounds you make, as I think I've made clear in the past. If you ever recorded one of your fantasies for me, I would enjoy that immensely.*_ _

__Blushing, Martin types, *I might take you up on that.*_ _

__*Don't threaten me with a good time. Speaking of a good time, could I interest you in more thoughts about werewolves?*_ _

__*Please do.* With a sigh of relief, Martin sits back and allows his reflexive arousal to start growing._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- Soooo much internalized trans gatekeeping. so much.


	10. Chapter 10

Next morning, Martin wakes up to uncomfortably damp pants. For a fuzzy moment he tries to remember what he'd dreamt about. He trudges to the bathroom, where it becomes apparent that he's not aroused, he just got his period. Downside of keeping his uterus, he supposes. It also helps put his mood from yesterday in perspective.

He's not particularly dysphoric about his period, but he does get bloated and achy, to an extent where he decides to say _fuck it_ and leave his binder off today. He showers and puts on the one button-down he has where his unbound chest doesn't make the buttons strain apart.

It's been a while since he's forgone wearing his binder in public. An inner voice scolds him for not putting on a bra, despite the dysphoria, and his aching chest, and how none of the ones he's kept still fit him. He should at least have gotten a jumper, even a hoodie, but it's unseasonably warm. He sits hunched on the tube and hopes nobody looks at him.

He feels marginally better once he's arrived at the archives, although he is desperately glad not to have run into Elias. His desk feels like a barrier against the world, and Tim and Sasha barely even give him a second look, let alone say anything.

Everything is fine until ten AM, when Jon calls Martin to his office.

Martin nearly upends his tea mug getting up from his chair. His chest feels horribly exposed under nothing but a flimsy layer of fabric. He wonders what Jon would think of him. His nipples, of course, choose that moment to perk up.

Inside Jon's office, not two minutes pass before Jon frowns at him. "Are you alright? You seem flushed."

This does not improve the state of Martin's blush. "I'm fine." He takes a deep breath. "As for the Simmons statement..." Mercifully, Jon doesn't further pursue the topic of Martin's health.

* * *

Martin spends the rest of the day in a state. Tim and Sasha both make worried inquiries to his wellbeing, which he deflects with mixed success. He ends up taking off early, sailing directly into bed as soon as he can. He lies and looks blankly at the ceiling.

He knows what he wants to do, and what - or whom - he wants to imagine while he's doing it. But his mind won't quite hold on to the notion, too agitated. He undoes the button of his jeans and tries to think of Jon-- Jon--

It won't cement itself into a thought, and Martin's mind instead, perversely, turns to bene_castigat. Maybe if Martin thought of him telling him what to do, what to imagine, that might....

Another idea occurs. bene_castigat did say he'd wanted to hear him.

Martin finds the recorder app, takes a deep breath, and starts.

"Um. This is NaughtySub. You probably realized that. Um. Anyway, you said you wanted me to try recording a fantasy, so, here goes." He swallows.

"I went to work without my binder today. My chest, well, you've seen it, it's not the smallest. But I was sore and-- anyway, that doesn't matter. But at ten AM my boss called me into his office, like he always does." Martin feels his face heating up with mortification and arousal. "And he asked me if I was okay. And obviously I said I was fine and that was the end of it, but I couldn't stop thinking... what if, what if--" He takes a deep breath.

"What if I said I wasn't. And instead of telling me to go home, he'd say, well, let's have a look at you, then. What's wrong? And I'd say, I'm sore, my, my chest is sore.

"And he'd say, you mean your tits.

"I'd bite my lip, and then I'd say, right, yes, my tits." The last words comes out with a little hitch of breath. "And he'd say, alright then, what are you waiting for? Let's see what I can do to help. Shirt off."

Martin's voice cracks, but he continues. "So I unbutton my shirt, and I let him see my tits, and he just-- reaches and cups one, and it's all heavy and swollen and sore, and I'm shaking because." He swallows, and imagines bene_castigat prompting him. Hoarsely, he continues, "Because I want more. I'm greedy for him to touch me, just slutty for it. And then, and then he just pops the nipple in his mouth. And he says, yes, you're overheated." He does his best to emulate Jon's officious voice, with little success. "You should leave your shirt in here. And I say, what, leave the office half naked?"

He has to swallow again. "And he says, yes. He says, why not? Everyone should see you, what you are, that you let me--" The words peter off in a strangled whimper and Martin shoves his hand down his pants like a man obsessed. Which he supposes he is.

"And he says, do you want me to tell you to leave your trousers here, too? Let everyone see how you've soaked your pants from one touch? And I beg him, I beg him to-- I don't know, to let me keep my trousers, to fuck me, I don't know which. And he bends me over his desk and starts, starts spanking me until I cry--" He grinds down on his cock hard and comes with a long, drawn out whine.

He sends the recording before he can have time to change his mind, and resolutely sticks the phone back in his pocket.

* * *

At ten PM, when no new message arrives from bene_castigat, Martin sends him a tentative, *hi?* He stays up until midnight and still sees no response. That's fine. bene_castigat has to work late sometimes. Before he'd been courteous about letting Martin know in advance, but that doesn't obligate him to keep doing it.

There is still no response the next morning. Maybe he's sleeping off his late day at work.

Martin tries again that evening. Again, no response.

On the following morning, he doesn't send another message. No use in looking desperate, even though he is. He keeps going over it in his mind. Was it his voice that turned bene_castigat off? The content of his fantasy? His stupid stammering? Oh God, what if bene_castigat had been assaulted by his boss and Martin triggered him?

Despite himself, as he gets to the Institute he hides in the first floor bathroom and knocks out one last miserable, *did i do something wrong?*

As he sends it, he could swear he hears a Discord chime from one of the other stalls, but when he leaves his own stall there's nobody there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- cliffhanger!  
> \- feelings of being abandoned without explanation  
> \- fantasies about workplace harassment  
> \- menstruation mention


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember what I'm thanking exmoose for but I'm pretty sure they had a hand in this somehow, and as usual my gratitude to mx_carter for the beta is eternal.

The next few days manage to crawl by glacially while leaving very little impression individually. Looking back, it feels like no time's passed at all since he'd sent bene_castigat that fateful message. If Martin achieves anything at work, it's certainly not due to his own efforts. It doesn't help that Jon has stopped keeping up their daily meetings. Maybe he thinks Martin ought to know how to continue by himself.

Well, tough luck, because right now if Martin manages to get out of bed in the morning he counts it as a win. Which is another thing to berate himself about: why does he even care so much? He goes back in the chat logs to check when they'd started talking: not two months ago. And he's acting all crushed. What's wrong with him?

(Probably the fact that he's a sad sack with no friends. That might have something to do with it.)

* * *

Jon calls him into his office at - Martin checks his phone - seven PM. Martin's been staying later in the archives, since he doesn't have much to do at home anyway. The archives at least have people in them, even if at this hour the only person is Jon, who has been staying resolutely locked inside his office.

Martin goes in feeling resigned. He knows what's going to happen: Jon will say that Martin's performance over the last week has been unacceptable, and given that Martin lied to get this job to begin with, maybe it would be better for everyone if he found other employment. Martin can't even object. It would be perfectly fair.

Jon closes the door and asks him to sit down. Really promising step, right there. He’s wearing his usual expression, but Martin notices him fiddling with his hands. He feels a burst of sympathy for Jon, who'd probably never had to fire anyone before. Maybe Martin ought to make it easier for him and quit.

He can't bring himself to do that. Against all reason, Martin clings to this job, where the pay lets him live and his direct boss tries to help him be better. He just clears his throat and says, "You wanted to see me?"

Jon looks fixedly at the wall behind Martin's back. "I have recently been made aware of some facts that you should also be apprised of."

Not the start Martin would have expected. "Oh?" His heart does not stop pounding, even as he knows what's going to happen. He's going to get fired. Why is he acting like this is anything other than a certainty?

Jon swallows. "I might be mistaken," he says. "In which case-- well, I don't think it's very likely." He briefly shuts his eyes. "It might be elucidating to you to know that online, I use the handle bene_castigat."

Martin blinks. He blinks again. He opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

"And as I said, I might be wrong, but I believe you chatted with me, under the name..." Jon looks pained. "A name I should probably not repeat in the office."

Slowly but surely, Martin feels himself turning tomato red. He buries his face in his hands. "You're not wrong," he says, muffled.

"Please speak clearly," Jon says, sounding agonized. "When you muffle yourself you sound--"

Martin snatches his hands down and sits ramrod straight. "This isn't possible," he says. "I'm going to die. I have died and gone to hell. This is the only possible explanation."

Jon flinches. "I'm terribly sorry," he says. "I really had no idea it was you until, well, the recording."

Now that Jon is saying that, Martin tries connecting the pieces himself. bene_castigat is a trans man who works impossible hours, employs a vocabulary most people would find ridiculous for sex scenes and makes it work. Jon started being less beastly as a boss after Martin complained about him. Fuck.

"--my resignation, if necessary."

At that moment, Martin realizes that Jon is still speaking. "What? Resignation? Why?"

Jon's eyes are piercing. In a moment of inappropriate association, Martin imagines Jon saying all the things bene_castigat wrote to him while _looking_ at him like that, and banishes the thought immediately. He really doesn't need to get hard right now.

"I have no wish to make you uncomfortable," Jon says quietly. "Please believe that. If you'd feel better working under someone else, I will arrange that, but you shouldn't have to be the one to move because I behaved in a manner unbefitting a professional superior."

"That's nonsense!" Martin stares at Jon. "You had no idea either, you said so yourself." Mortification burns him - no, this is worse. This is shame, a corrosive feeling, eating through him and leaving only bleak despair behind. "It's not your fault. You shouldn't have to deal with me, either." He hugs himself tightly even as he hates himself for the disgusting show of self-pity. "I'm sorry."

Jon's expression blanks. "What are you sorry for?"

Martin gives a choked cough. With all the misery circulating through him, he can't feel any more than quiet resignation at the tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't know. Being me, I guess."

To Martin's shock, he recognizes Jon's expression now, that fierce, unyielding look he had the last time Martin cried in front of him. Or, well, cried in real life. "Don't ever be sorry for that." His voice is soft but full of conviction.

It just makes Martin cry harder, cringing. "I am, though. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be," the rest of the sentence is lost to sobs. Oh, God, how pathetic could he be?

"Speak up." Jon's voice has a hint of steel in it, commanding, and it makes Martin shiver in ways he doesn't want to examine. He also hands Martin a tissue, for which Martin is grateful.

He blows his nose and says, in a voice as steady as he can make it, "That I couldn't be someone you'd want, I suppose." He doesn't look down at himself, consciously forces himself not to think about all his myriad flaws.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jon says, sounding frantic. He stands up, walks around the table, and crouches to hug Martin where he's sat in the chair. Martin is too stunned to react, to do anything but memorize the way Jon smells, a faint whiff of aftershave mixed with ink and dust.

A moment later, Jon lets go. "I'm so sorry," he stammers. "I don't know what I--"

Martin envelops him in a hug before he can go any further. He'll be damned if he lets Jon apologize for a hug Martin's wanted for months. Maybe this is pity; right now Martin doesnt give a single, solitary fuck. He wants the heat of Jon's skin to imprint on his inner arms.

"I do want you," Jon says, voice small. "That's the _problem_."

Martin flinches, but still doesn't let go. "I get that I'm--"

"You're my _employee_ ," Jon says. "It's unethical. Which is awful, because in every other possible facet, you're perfect."

Martin's arms go slack with shock. "What?"

"You're perfect," Jon repeats, obstinate. "You're everything I wanted. But you're my employee, so I can't. It's not fair to you."

"Okay, no," Martin says. "If you don't want me, for whatever reason, then say so. Don't pretend like you're doing it for my sake."

"For your-- Martin, listen to yourself! I'm your direct superior! I could fire you!"

Martin looks at him. "Yeah," he says softly. "And you could break my heart, too. I guess I'm hung up on the wrong part of this equation, but that's where I am."

"Martin," Jon says helplessly. He's still crouching next to Martin's chair. When Martin opens up his arms again, Jon comes into them like a lost lamb to the fold. "This is such a mess."

"It is," Martin says. "But if we try, maybe together we can find a way out."

Jon doesn't answer. He leans his head on Martin's shoulder, instead, a tiny, precious weight that Martin takes idiot delight in. _We **will** fix this,_ Martin thinks. They have to, because he’d do anything to keep this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and that's it. Hope it's been a fun ride!
> 
> In this chapter:  
> \- hugging without permission with power differential  
> \- crying   
> \- Discussion of employer/employee relationship


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, but this story isn't done - I plan to write a few more ficlets detailing the further progress of their relationship. 
> 
> My thanks as ever to Mx_Carter for beta and to exmoose for a whole bunch of reasons.

After a few minutes of sitting there and hugging, it occurs to Martin to ask, "Have you eaten anything today?"

Jon sighs. "Not really. Have you?"

"No." Martin usually runs to overeating when he's unhappy, but he'd felt guilty about his productivity and stayed at his desk during lunch. "We should probably do something about that." He reluctantly lets go of Jon.

Jon steps away looking dazed. "Right. Yes."

* * *

Martin picks the place. Jon follows him, snatching glances like he's afraid of Martin disappearing if he looks at him head on. A tired looking waitress gives them a menu and goes to sit at the counter next to a stack of books, opening the top one.

"Why now?" he asks Jon, mostly to get the conversation rolling. "If you've known for a week, why wait until now to say anything?"

Jon gives an awkward half-shrug. "At first, I didn't know what to do. Then I thought it might be best to let you forget about me." He ducks his head. "But you looked so unhappy, and I kept worrying I'd-- broken you, somehow. Made you feel unsafe."

"Not unsafe, no," Martin says. "Just miserable." He scrounges up the courage to say, "I missed you."

Jon looks pained. "I," he says, pauses, then continues, "am really bad at this kind of conversation."

Martin runs a hand through his hair. "Can't say I've had many; I'm probably rubbish at it myself." He smiles tentatively. "I'm told that being bad at things is the first step in learning to be good at them, though." It was in one of the books Jon had given him.

Jon grimaces. "Yes, well, there's a reason I don't try to pick up many new hobbies. I greatly dislike not knowing how to go along."

Martin looks at him, struck by affection for this thorny man, so sharp he keeps cutting himself. He wonders how Jon discovered and honed his proficiency at online dirty talk. As interesting as that would be, though, it's not the issue at hand. "Alright. We need to decide what happens now." Jon nods, dark eyes intent on Martin's face. "I..." Martin's supply of bravery gutters and dies. "What do you want?"

"For you to be safe and happy," Jon says, without hesitation, like he'd had that thought fully formed and ready to leap off the tip of his tongue. "That's what matters."

_And you? Who keeps **you** safe and happy, Jonathan Sims?_ Martin shakes his head and says, "I feel safe with you. These last few weeks, I've been happier than I had been for a long time."

Jon exhales and bows his head. "I noticed," he says, like a confession. "You..." he looks around him and purses his lips.

In a fit of inspiration, Martin says, "Would it help if we used chat instead?"

Jon goggles at him. "What, spend the entire evening on our phones like a couple of prats?"

Martin shrugs. "I'd rather be a prat who's communicating than a, a not-prat who stares at you with cow eyes and can't say anything useful. Please. I want to hear the rest of that sentence."

Jon opens his mouth, shuts it, and pulls out his phone. He doesn't thumb type as quickly as Martin does, but the notification sounds soon enough.

*You looked so bright,* bene_castigat writes. Jon writes. *It was a joy to look at you.*

"Jon," Martin says, choked. He blinks quickly and types, *i felt like i was lit up from the inside. it was so good. i dont wanna give it up.*

*I want to,* Jon writes, and Martin's heart flutters. *But even if we put aside the power difference - which is a rather major issue to put aside - there are many reasons why this might not work in the long run.* As he sees Martin's expression, Jon hurries to add, *I'm not saying we can't, but if we do this, I want us to go in with eyes open.*

*what kind of reasons?*

Jon chews his lip. After some deliberation, he types, *Among other reasons, I'm concerned that I may not be able to live up to my own hype. There are many things I am comfortable typing in online chat that I wouldn't be comfortable saying out loud, let alone doing.*

Martin giggles. *yeah well im not up for being fucked by a whole pack of werewolves irl, so we're even.* His giggle evolves into a laugh when Jon receives his message and chokes on his water. Then he adds, *nobody says we have to take it offline at all if you don't want to.*

*Is that what you want? Someone who can only give you words on a screen?* Jon looks down at his phone when he types, but when his message arrives at Martin's phone, he's giving Martin a piercing stare. *You deserve better than that.*

*funny, I remember telling you it was plenty for me. what are you rly afraid of?* Martin looks up and stubbornly holds his gaze.

For a moment, they're locked in a stalemate. Then Jon deflates and writes, *Your standards in partners are low, I have an appalling personality, and I will hurt you.*

*yeah. relationships do that,* Martin types, unimpressed. *stopping this will hurt, too, but this way I at least get to enjoy myself in the meantime.* He adds, *your personality isn't bad. your trying hard.*

*You're,* Jon sends, pauses, then sends, *sweet to say so. I want to be the partner you deserve. I want that very much.*

*then keep trying,* Martin writes. *there's possible pain if we try, yeah, but guaranteed pain if we dont.*

Jon laughs shakily and rakes a hand through his hair. *Supposing we did that. What kind of relationship did you have in mind?*

Guilty images of strolls hand in hand and cuddling in front of the telly flash through Martin's mind. *what we had was good,* he sends, cautious. *if thats all you wanted id be happy to keep that.*

Jon's giving him another soul-flaying look, then types, *And if it weren't?*

That's quite enough. Martin types, *what about you? what do u want?*

Jon smiles, crooked, and tilts his head as though ceding a point. *I want you,* he writes. *I can't say what I'd be comfortable doing in person, but I want to know all of your fantasies, and all the ways to give you pleasure. I want to be able to aim at your heart and shatter it with a word, so I can put it back together with another.* Then he looks down at his phone and winces. *Oh God, that was horrifying, I'm sorry.* He exhales. *But at least you know what you're looking at.*

Martin's aforementioned heart beats like it wants to escape his chest and run away to Jon's. *that didnt sound horrifying at all.*

*I want to understand you from the inside out,* Jon types, eyes intensely bright. *I want to know every way to hurt you so I never do, not unless you want me to.* He bites his lip. *I know I'll hurt you anyway, in ways neither of us intends.* He lets out a breath. *But I do want to try.*

Daringly, Martin reaches out. He holds his breath until Jon sees him and meets him halfway, then lets it out in a gasp when he feels the heat of Jon's skin on his.

It makes him bold. With his other hand, he types, *how do you feel about cuddling?*

*I believe I feel very positive indeed.*

Martin can't help the smile that swallows his entire face. *good. everything else we can figure out as we go.*

* * *

They hug when they leave the restaurant, long and clinging, learning each other's physical presence. “You’re sure?” Jon asks, and Martin squeezes him and says, “Of course.” When they part, Martin can still smell Jon on his jumper. He hopes it lasts. 

He takes off his jumper when he gets home, and his shirt and his binder. When he pulls out his phone, there's already a notification from--

From Jon. *Shall we get back to where we left off?* he writes.

Martin shivers. *yes pls.* He hadn't been in the mood to touch himself all week, but at that one sentence, his entire bottom half aches with want. *what should i do?*

There is a pause, and then Jon writes, *I want to see your face.*

It takes a few minutes to set up, but then Martin's in bed, looking at bene_castigat's icon floating on a dark screen and a thumbnail image of his own face. Now that the icon is blown up, Martin can see what it is: red letters scratched into a pale arm. _VERITAS VINCIT_. He'll have to ask Jon about it some time. *what now?*

*Firstly, for the rest of this scene, I want you to say whatever you do out loud. I want to hear you.* Martin can imagine Jon's eyes glittering hungrily, and it makes him shiver even harder. *Secondly, I don't believe I reviewed the recording you sent me. I think it is time I did that.*

A whimper escapes Martin. Jon had brought up the possibility of asking him about the recording, back in the restaurant, but that hadn’t prepared Martin for the reality of it.

*Wonderful,* Jon writes, *you're doing beautifully already. Now, from the start: you introduced yourself, always good form. I did want you to record a fantasy, this is correct. Now for the content.*

Martin doesn't know if he wants to laugh or moan; the sound that comes out is some of both. "Are you hiding a schoolteacher kink?"

*I'm hardly hiding it.* He can hear Jon's dry tone behind the written words. *To the content: office fantasy. I admit I was rattled at first, but it's a solid concept. Top marks. Then humiliation and possibly gender play in referring to your chest as tits, with a hint of medical play with regard to the soreness and inspection. An intriguing mix.*

How is this making Martin wet? He's torn between lust and incredulity. "If I get a good mark, will I earn a sticker?"

*I suspect you'll earn other things,* Jon writes. *While I approve of all the elements you've included, I must say they were somewhat jumbled near the end. You did very well for your first attempt, but still, we mustn't let standards slip. You should now hurt your tits for me until I feel like you've had enough.*

Martin's breath catches in his throat. "H-how?"

*Are your nipples hard?*

"Yes."

*Pinch them.* After Martin spends several minutes doing that, Jon tells him to slap his tits until they're red and then display them until his face is a matching hue. *You love this part, don't you, showing off what you let me do to you.*

"I do," Martin says, low and breathy.

*Mm. Lovely. Hands and knees, and spread your legs.* Martin rearranges himself so the phone is in front of him and moves into position. *If I leave you like this, will you drip onto the sheets?* Martin lets out a shaky groan. *I asked you a question. Answer me.*

"Yes." Martin's face is hot.

*It's a good position for you, isn't it, waiting for someone to take those sloppy, greedy holes? Would you like it if I found some stranger and gave him your address, ordered you to wait for him with your arse and cunt on display?*

"Aaaah please," Martin sobs.

*I love your voice. Love to hear it begging me. Please, what? Please, find someone to fuck your greedy holes? Please, not let anyone know what a slut you are?"

In a broken voice, Martin begs, "Please let me touch myself. Please let me come."

*Keep begging,* Jon writes. *You've kept that voice away from me for seven weeks and I want to see what you can do with it. You can play with your nipples in the meantime.*

Martin braces himself on his elbows so his hands are free to pinch and roll his nipples. He keeps begging in a voice that grows more hoarse and less intelligible by the moment.

Finally, finally Jon says, *Alright. You can hump your hand, if you thank me for the privilege.*

Martin shuffles until he can grind down on his hand. "Thank you," he says, his voice just barely recognizable as human. "Thank you, thank you, tha-- ah, ah, ah, ah!"

* * *

They go two more rounds before Martin drops on the bed in an exhausted pile of limbs. He just manages to see the writing on his phone screen: *Good?*

"You know it was good, you bastard," Martin says with a groan. "Hope you don't mind that I'm now dead."

*I dearly hope you'll be resurrected by tomorrow morning. Good archival assistants aren't easy to come by.*

Warmth fills Martin's chest and tears lazily spill out of his eyes. "Thank you," he says, and closes them.

*Don't fall asleep yet,* Jon writes. *Drink something, then we'll put your chest away.*

Martin does get up to wash his hands and get some water, but as he goes back to bed, he says, "I think I'm feeling fine, actually. Good." His body feels all glowy in the aftermath of multiple orgasms, all of it of a piece, all of it indisputably his. 

*I'm glad to hear that,* Jon writes after a small pause. *I'll see you tomorrow morning.*

Martin does not fall asleep cuddling his phone; he's aware he can be ridiculous, but there are limits. Even so, for once the empty space in his bed feels, not like a lack, but like hope for things to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- overtones of teacher/student roleplay  
> \- grading a fantasy  
> \- mild painplay  
> \- bit of crying  
> \- relationship negotiation, fucking finally
> 
> I want to earnestly thank everyone who left a comment, and thank you again for your patience for my taking time to answer. 
> 
> Everyone who wanted to have them scene irl: they're not there yet... But they will be. :3


End file.
